The Mirrorball
by asheniel
Summary: **Finished**A BH fic about life, death, addiction, betrayal, changes, and a couple of good guys living in Hell...
1. Slivers of Him in Me

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Authors Notes – This fic is very different from my other fics. It's very…raw? I don't know, all I can say is that its **different**. It takes place WAY in the future (Pietro is 32) and he works at a drug rehab center. WARNING – there are a lot of drug references in here and a coupla drug scenes. Some are explicit. One of them is in this chapter. Also, a whole lot of swearing and basically, adultish themes. MY POINT IS, please don't read this if you can't handle 'mature content'. So now that everyone thinks I'm queer, I'll move on. The flashbacks do not go in order, this is the first chapter in four! What the hell does a mirrorball have to do with this fic? Maybe you'll see! Meanwhile, chapter 2 will be out in um a week? Review! Read! In reverse order, or course…

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"The Mirrorball"

By NHSpartanGal14

Chapter One ~ Slivers of Him in Me

Mr. Maximoff rubbed his chin pensively, thoroughly taking in the sullen teenage boy that sat before him. His hair was greasy and in dire need of a haircut, and his angrily protruding cheekbones gave him the appearance of a starved fox. His eyes were cold and twin blocks of solid ice, set too close together and accented by wispy blond eyelashes. His nametag cheerfully introduced him to be Tony, and he found no shame in staring right back at Mr. Maximoff, his translucent eyebrows knit together in silent spite as he took in the crisp white button-down shirt, the perfectly coordinated tie, and the snow-colored hair that had clearly taken a helluva long time to get it looking the way it did. He shook his head, somewhat disgusted and more than a little scornful of these stupid adults with too much time on their hands, all clean-cut and desperate to lend him a helping hand because he was poor and misled. God, they were dumbasses, and they were all the same, too. He settled back comfortably in his chair, already bored of this little "talk" session that hadn't even begun yet.

"Tell me about yourself," Mr. Maximoff said loudly, his piercing blue eyes firmly locking upon Tony's, who simply snorted and looked away.

"What the hell don't you know? It's all in there, isn't it?" Tony grinned mockingly, gesturing toward the slim manila file folder that lay upon the desk between them.

Mr. Maximoff smiled in reply, not looking the least bit fazed. He had no qualms with the cocky-assed attitude that this boy obviously carried; in fact, he rather enjoyed it. He'd never been one to turn away from a challenge, after all. Flexing his fingers, he said smoothly, "yes, well, I'd like to hear it from you, Tony. You don't mind my calling you Tony, do you?"

"If I can call you – Pietro." The derisive young boy replied, reading off the wooden plaque that stood in front of him. 

"I suppose it's settled then, Tony," Pietro answered. "Now tell me, from your standpoint, everything you know about yourself. I'll tell you if it's true or false." A poker smile played coyly on his lips and his pale eyes remained forever locked upon Tony's.

The greasy-haired boy shrugged casually, though feeling slightly uncomfortable under the unwavering scrutiny of his counselor. Letting his eyes wander, he said, "what do you mean by that?"

Pietro studied him in reply, making him feel as naked as a newborn baby. This guy was actually sorta creepy. "I mean," he said finally, "tell me about yourself. Where were you born? How many brothers and sisters do you have? What primary school did you attend? Details, generalizations, it doesn't really matter, Tony. Just talk and I'll listen." He leaned forward expectantly, his pen poised jauntily above his paper, ready to scribble down the first words that escaped the young boy's lips.

Tony snorted and stretched his arms above his head, lazily taking his time to think up an answer. "I was born in Minnesota," he said deliberately, "but we moved to Bayville when I was eight."

"Why'd you move?" Pietro interrupted, his pen flying across the notepad.

Tony stared at him. "Why the hell do you care?"

"It's my job to care," Pietro replied dryly. "Just answer the question."

"Haven't you got it in that packet of dirt on me?" Tony demanded, pointing accusingly at the file folder.

"Nevertheless, I'd like to hear it from you," Pietro said smoothly, taking a sip from his steaming mug of coffee. Setting it down with a loud clunk, he smiled pleasantly. "I'm waiting."

"Fuck you, what if I don't want to tell you?" Tony sneered.

"Sounds like a challenge," Pietro sneered back through cold blue eyes and an amused smile. 

"So what if it is?"

"We'll be sitting here for a while then, Tony. Trust me, we've got time."

"Karen'll be here at three."

"Karen can wait."

The two males stared each other down, the younger getting more and more angry while the other remained sinisterly calm.

"It's a long story," Tony said, finally dropping his gaze.

"Like I said before, we've got time," Pietro replied.

"You wouldn't understand if I told you, anyway," Tony said, smirking slightly.

"Try me."

"What if I won't?"

"Oh, but you will."

Tony sat up, his temper flaring. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" He demanded, his eyes glittering dangerously.

Pietro rubbed his chin thoughtfully, ignoring the fact that the boy in front of looked as if he were about to kill him. "Relax, Tony," he said after a moment, gesturing for him to sit back.

The young boy narrowed his eyes suspiciously, his heart still racing in fury. God, he hated this guy. He was an asshole, an asshole with way too much free time that just had to pry into other people's lives to cure his own boredom –

"Would you like a Coke, Tony?" Pietro interrupted his thoughts, smiling inquiringly in that annoyingly subtle way. "A lemonade? A coffee? We serve anything and everything except for the alcohol variety."

"No," Tony said stiffly, sitting back and glaring hatefully at the man in front of him. A fucking smartass that didn't know shit about him except the written facts. Fucking rich white asshole.

"Shall we move on?" Pietro suggested cheerfully, stirring his coffee. "I'll let you come back to this question."

"Golly, thanks," Tony said.

"Your welcome," Pietro replied, seemingly oblivious to the young boy's sarcasm. "Now, Tony, how long have you been staying here?"

"Where, in New York?" Tony asked, feigning stupidity.

Pietro lifted his gaze and smiled sweetly. "At Jefferson's." 

"Don't even remember," Tony replied, grinning. "Been in and out ever since I moved here. They're thinking of sending me to the one upstate if I don't get my act together."

"Why would they ever?" Pietro said quietly, scribbling messily across his notepad.

Tony's fragile temper snapped and he leaped to his feet, his eyes burning. "Fuck you," he spat furiously, his angular features twisted into a violent expression. "Fuck you, asshole! Don't think you can sit there and talk shit about me! I'll kill you, I swear I will." His chest heaved with emotion and his fists itched to wipe that stupid expression off his counselor's face.

"Sit down, Tony," Pietro said sharply, his eyes narrowing. "You need to calm down."

"Don't tell me what I need to do!" Tony shot back.

Pietro smiled then and leaned forward to rest his chin on his fingertips. "Well, then tell me again what you think of me, Tony. I'd like to hear it again."

The young boy glared doubtfully at him for a minute, unsure of what to do. Then, taking a quivering breath, he said in strangled calm, "You're an asshole and I hate you. All of you. You don't want to help messed-up kids, you just want to mess them up more than they already are so you can make enough money to buy that Mercedes-Benz you've been drooling over for the past week. You don't care but _you _don't even pretend to, and that makes you worse than the rest of them." He glared frostily at Pietro, his chin angled defiantly. "You don't know anything about me or kids like me, so I think you need to drop that fucking act you've got going on there before someone like me slits your throat. The only things you know - " he paused for a moment, his heart swelling in hatred, "is what you read in your textbooks and shit and those're all wrong. You don't know what it's really like, _Pietro_." He glowered contemptuously at the indifferent man in front of him, who looked as bored as he had in the beginning of the meeting.

"How old are you, Tony?" Pietro said suddenly, lifting his gaze and looking the young boy straight in the eye. 

"Seventeen," Tony replied slowly.

"I'm thirty-two," Pietro said, tapping his cheek thoughtfully. He studied his fingernails carefully, then turned his hands over to stare at his palms. "I've been seventeen before, Tony."

"Driving a convertible and getting laid every weekend?" Tony asked cuttingly. 

Pietro chuckled softly. "Maybe," he said. "What're you in for, huh?"

"I dunno, smartass. You know better than I do."

~15 Years Before~

"Fuck, yo, my nose is burning," Todd Tolensky muttered shrilly, shaking his head from side to side. "It's burning, yo! It's on fuckin' fire!" A tear slid down his cheek and he rubbed at it vigorously, his face crumpled into a pitiful expression. "It's on fuckin' fire," he repeated quietly, his fingers twitching. Uttering a soft cry, he turned and buried his head into the couch cushions. "My body's tingling," he whispered, his voice muffled. "You know what it's like down there? Yo, it's like fuckin' spiders. Mean spiders." He trembled in fear, then lifted his head to gaze solemnly at Lance. "C'mon, Avalanche," he begged, his pale eyes beseeching. "Avalanche, the spiders are coming. Please, don't let them burn me. It hurts, dammit. You don't understand. You won't let them, will you? I didn't think so…" He paused, concentrating on a spot on the couch cushion. His frightened expression melted then and was replaced by an eager smile. "Gosh, they're here! And they lit their candles!" He started to giggle hysterically, his small frame quivering. He turned to Lance again and frantically started to bat at him, babbling incessantly under his breath. "C'mon, Avalanche! Please? They're pretty this time! Damn pretty! Like snowflakes, I think. Big snowflakes with rainbows stuck to their asses – "

Lance ignored him and instead, yanked the plastic straw from his hand and stuck it up his own nose. Tapping a bit of fine white powder onto a broken slice of mirror, he held it beneath the straw, burying the bent plastic end in the pearly dust. He sniffed sharply, filling his lungs with the warm fogged joy, and he collapsed back onto the couch, his eyes closed and his breathing deep and even.

"Ew!" Todd squealed upon watching him, his face contorted in fascination. "You's doing poison, yo!"

"Fuck off," Lance replied irritably, opening his eyes and shoving Todd away from him. He fell back onto the couch cushions again and sighed slowly as he was enveloped into the obscuring mist. Beside him, Pietro snorted the glittering crystals in the same manner that Lance had, allowing his mind to sink into a sea of semi-conscious bliss as the drug took over.

"Fuck, yo! Freddy's sleeping!" Todd cried suddenly, his excited shouts jerking the other two from their tranquil states. The young boy exploded into peals of laughter as he pointed to the twitching figure that lay spread-eagle on the floor. "He's drooling, too! What an ass! Heh heh!"

"Shut up, Toad," Lance said angrily, shoving him off the couch and sending him sprawling across the couch so that his head rested awkwardly on Fred's shoulder.

"Ha! Fred's sleepin' with Lance's sister!" Todd quipped, immediately rolling over and pinching the blank, clammy face with his fingers. "Freddy sleeps with his eyes open!" He grinned lopsidedly, a giggle escaping his lips as he reached down and pecked Fred on the cheek. "Sweet dreams!"

"Lance, make him shut up," Pietro whined as he felt the residual rapture leave his veins. He'd always found that his highs never lasted very long and he suspected that his mutant power had something to do with it. The older boy complied by kicking Todd in the head, who didn't even seem to notice. "Siiilent niiight," he warbled, cradling Fred's head in his lap, "hoooly niiight…alllll is caaaalm, alllll is briiight…"

Pietro grabbed the straw and the nearly-empty plastic bag from between the couch cushions and sniffed eagerly, grimly hoping that the tiny amount of ivory powder left was enough to evoke some sort of feeling.

"Hey, that last shot was mine," Lance protested, yanking the bag away.

"I wasn't done!" Pietro snapped, diving towards the dark-haired boy's outstretched hand and successfully snatching the precious bag away.

"…mooother and chiiiilld…"

"Shit! It's all gone anyway – "

"Sleeeeep in heeeeaaavenly peeeee-eeace…"

"Give it back – "

"It's all gone, asshole!"

"….sleee-eep in heeaavenly peeeaaacce."

Fred's eyes were wide and glassy, and he had long since ceased to twitch. He was dead.

~Present Time~

"Have you ever lost anyone to overdose?" Pietro said suddenly, startling himself out of his own daze.

Tony stared at him. "None o'your business."

Pietro raised his eyebrows. "Tony, your business is my business. _You_ are my business. Now I suggest that you start to talk, and soon, I might add, or you may as well set up tent here."

"This is like fuckin' criminal interrogation," Tony replied angrily. "What the hell did I do wrong?"

"You got caught," Pietro said shortly, tapping his pen against his notepad. 

"Yeah, well fuck you."

Pietro lifted his gaze, a slight smile flickering on his lips. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Do that," Tony said curtly, glowering at him.

Pietro smiled knowingly, nodding towards the hanging clock on the wall. "Tick-tock, Tony. It's 2:40 right now. Now, while I would most definitely enjoy your charming presence in my office for the rest of the day, I'm guessing that you'd rather leave on time."

Tony glared at him in reply. "Well, fuck you," he repeated, though he clearly was starting to realize the hopelessness of the situation.

"I'll repeat the question. Have you ever lost anyone to overdose?"

Tony bit his lip, his heart pumping with fury. "One guy," he said grudgingly.

Pietro nodded, writing hastily. "Good friend?"

"No," Tony shrugged casually. "Knew each other."

"What drug?"

Tony glared at him. "How the hell am I supposed to know?"

"I was assuming that you were with him at the time. Were you?"

Tony shrugged again. "I guess, but there was so much shit goin' around that I never knew what really happened. Fuckin' doctors said he died of a heart attack."

"Stimulant."

"What?"

"Stimulant. Increases the heart rate."

Tony frowned. "Whatever. It was his fuckin' fault that he died, anyway. He had a bad heart to begin with. Shouldn'ta been messin' around."

"But you still do."

Tony whipped to attention at that, his short temper churning once again. "Fuck you, asshole. I'll do what I want. Don't fuckin' sit there and preach me, man. I'll kill you if you do."

Pietro didn't even look up from his writing. "Wasn't preaching you, Tony. I'm just saying, your friend died of overdose and you haven't even thought once about quitting?"

"Why the hell should I? He was the dumbass that OD'd. Not my problem."

Pietro looked up, his icy blue eyes carefully scrutinizing Tony. "What about health reasons? What if you overdose and die, too?"

"I'm not stupid enough to do that," Tony replied scornfully.

"It's not a matter of stupidity."

"Yes it is, fuck you. If you're stupid, then you don't have control. If you don't have control, then it's better that you fuckin' die."

"It doesn't bother you that your friend died because he 'didn't have control,' as you say?"

"He wasn't my friend and it was his fault, anyway."

"It didn't hurt, not for a second?"

Tony glared at him. "What're you getting at? You saying I'm a fucking cold-assed bastard?"

"I didn't say that, Tony. I just want to know what your feelings are on the whole situation."

"Yeah, well you're right. I _am_ a fuckin' cold-assed bastard. I don't care. It was his goddamn fault and what happened to him won't fucking stop me from doing it again." 

"I understand, Tony."

"No you don't. You don't understand a word I just said because _you_ don't know what it's like out there, man. There's the weak and the stupid and then there's the strong and the smart. The weak and the stupid die, and I'm still here 'cause I'm not."

"And I'm glad."

"Fuck you."

~15 Years Before~

"I hate you!" Todd Tolensky screamed, kicking a chair to the floor. "Fuck you! I'll tear this whole house apart if you don't fuckin' give them to me now, Lance!"

Pietro watched in open-mouthed horror as the crazed younger boy ran around the tiny family room, frantically ripping everything from the walls and shelves and throwing it to the floor, jumping up and down until the floor was littered with shards of broken glass and plastic and wood.

"Todd, calm down," Lance ordered sharply, hurrying forward to control the young boy.

"FUCK YOU!" Todd shoved him aside violently, his eyes blazing with rage. "Fuck you!" He yelled again, picking up a clock and throwing it across the room. "Where the hell are they?" He sprinted from the room and into the kitchen, furiously yanking open the cabinets and shoving the contents aside. "Where the hell did you put them?"

"Todd, calm down," Lance shouted, roughly grabbing the young boy by the shoulders in an attempt to restrain him.

"LETGO OF ME!" Todd shrieked, his eyes bulging. He reached forward and shoved the unexpecting Lance into the counter, sending him sprawling to the floor, moaning. "I know you have them!" He exploded, brutally kicking Lance in the stomach.

"Todd...stop…" Lance gasped, his face contorted in pain and shock as he attempted to deflect Todd's blows.

"Todd!" Pietro rushed forward, his heart pounding wildly. "Todd! Calm down! It's me, remember? Todd, it's me!" He desperately searched the red-rimmed eyes of his young friend, desperately seeking some bit of sane recognition.

"LET…GO!" Todd screamed, shoving him away. "Fuck you! You don't understand!"

"Todd…" Lance said hoarsely, pulling himself to his feet. "Todd, buddy, you need to chill. It's all right. What do you need?"

Todd's eyes bulged, his face quivering with rage as he turned on the older boy. "You know, asshole! I know you still got them! You're a dirty-ass lying bastard – "

Lance took that opportunity to grab Todd and wrestle him to the floor, splinters of glass crunching beneath their squirming bodies as the younger boy angrily struggled to escape his grip.

"Fuck you!" He screamed, writhing uselessly. "Fuck you fuck you fuck you! I hate you! I hate you! You don't even understand…" He started to cry; salty tears flowing freely from water jaded eyes, intermingling with the sheen of perspiration that coated his grayish skin. "I hate you!" He choked out, his body starting to jerk as sobs tore from his throat. "I hate you…you don't even understand. I hate you. You don't – you don't know what it's like for me – "

"It's hard for all of us, Todd," Lance replied piercingly, his grip still firm on the bony wrists. "We're all in on this together. You need to calm down."

"I – I am calm," Todd said in a strangled voice, fat tears oozing relentlessly from between his eyelashes. "God, you don't even understand. I hate you…I am calm. I hate you."

"You can't keep doing this," Lance continued, though his voice shook slightly. "Todd, you need to get over it. Freddy's gone and freaking out about it won't bring him back." He paused, breathing deeply in an attempt to cease his trembling. "Todd?"

"Fuck…you…" Todd replied, his voice cracking. "I hate you. You're a fucking hypocrite. I hate you. I know you still have them somewhere and you use 'em, asshole."

"I'm clean. We all are."

"Like hell you are."

"Todd, listen," Lance said, frustrated. "Using isn't gonna help. You gotta deal with it. Me and Pietro are here, buddy. We know what you're going through."

"No you don't," Todd whispered. "I need them. You guys don't, at least Pietro doesn't. _You_ just say you don't."

"Todd…" Lance could feel tears forming in his eyes. "Me and Pietro, we'll help you get clean. You'll feel better in a little bit, buddy. I promise. It hurts right now, but it'll get better."

"No it won't," Todd mumbled. "You don't understand. I need them." His eyelids drifted shut and he passed out then, leaving Lance and Pietro kneeling in a wavering silence.

"You think he'll be ok?" Pietro asked tentatively after a minute, watching the young boy's thin chest rise and fall with his breathing.

"I don't know." Lance sighed, his eyes wet. He ran a hand through his dark hair. "Pietro?"

"Hm?"

"You think he really hates me?" 

Pietro studied Todd intensely for a minute, pretending that he was thinking about something else. "I…I don't know," he said helplessly after a moment of tense silence. "I don't know." He gently brushed a shard of glass off the unconscious boy's cheek. "Couldn't…" He hesitated. "Lance, couldn't you just give him _some_thing?" When silence answered him, he exhaled deeply. "He's just a kid, Lance." He gazed imploringly at the older boy, who simply sat stiffly.

"He needs to get clean," he said sharply, though his tone cracked with longing. "We all do. It's not my fault, Pietro. What if one of us ends up the way Fred did…" He concentrated on a spot on the wall, refusing to meet Pietro's intent gaze. "Look…I'm sorry. But we have to deal. Life's like that." He turned toward his friend, his eyes pleading. "Please…you understand, right?"

"Yeah…" Pietro nodded slowly, tasting a slow bitterness forming in his mouth. "I understand." He shrugged, trying to appear unconcerned. "Better take the kid upstairs." 

"Yeah…" Lance smiled nervously, getting to his feet and dusting the broken bits of silverware off his knees. Carefully, he picked Todd up and started making his way toward the stairs.

"Wait…Lance?" Pietro said suddenly.

The older boy turned, Todd's head flopping uselessly against his chest. "Yeah?"

Pietro bit his lip, almost afraid to ask. "Um…Todd – he's not right, is he? I mean, you don't still use them?"

A tear rolled down Lance's cheek in response, it's crystalline depths harshly magnifying his tan skin. His eyes glittered with pain and remorse, yet his lips remained firm. "No," he whispered, shaking his head slowly. "I don't."

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End of Chapter One


	2. My Actions Reflected in His Consequences

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Authors Notes – Erm so this chapter is a little less intense but a lot more angsty. Also, a bit of info that I thought would be helpful to tell everyone so you don't all think that Tony's a selfish bastard. He's not, he just has ummm issues and he's not as evil as he comes off. Ok you'll sorta see in the last chapter, but it's not gonna be fully blatant or anything. He's sorta…well, you have to read into him a little more. He represents MORE than just a stupid street kid. Well you'll see or maybe you won't, but anywho, on with chapter two! Plzz expect the next chapter out in about a week and a half, at least that's what I'm HOPING! No guarantees. RER!

Chapter Two ~ My Actions Reflected in His Consequences

~Present Time~

Pietro put his pen down, carefully pretending to study his pad of notes. It was strange, but he had never hated Lance for lying to them the way he had. He knew he should have; the older boy had been acting selfish and completely hypocritical, considering that he was the one insisting that they all get clean. But…it wasn't his fault. Was it? Drugs were clearly his only escape from the hellish nightmare he was living, and Pietro had no reason to harass him about it. After all, he didn't know what it was like. He wasn't addicted. He couldn't hate Lance. Not the way Todd could.

Pietro had often wondered what it would be like to fall the way Todd did. Completely lose touch with the harsh, grating reality and collapse into a colorful new dimension, a dimension where the skies shone brighter and all people did was laugh. He'd figured that that had been why the young boy had been so addicted. After all, why bother with a fucked-up life when you can buy powdered utopia for a hundred bucks? 

They'd sent Todd to rehab three days into his withdrawal, hating themselves for it but knowing that there was no other choice. Well, maybe one, but Lance wouldn't allow it. Todd had been insane with his desperate craving and they were unsure as to how to handle him. Sometimes he'd have violent temper tantrums like the one he'd had after Freddy's death, and they'd pin him down and tie him to a bed. They'd be too scared to stay with him and instead, they'd stand in the next room or maybe downstairs, silently listening to him scream and curse for hours. Other times, he'd sit and cry in front of the tv, babbling nonsense to himself and plucking uselessly at their clothing when they tried to comfort him. And yet other times, he'd hallucinate, he'd vomit, he'd have raging fevers. They'd feared for his life and though Pietro had repeatedly argued that drugs may be the only way to save it, Lance had stoically refused. 

So they'd sent him to rehab. Some hole-in-the-wall rehab center where all the rooms smelled like stale laundry and the nurses themselves looked as if they were on drugs. That had been the only time Pietro had ever felt boiling hatred toward Lance. So what if he was just trying to help Todd? Fuck that, he was tearing their family apart. He was the dumbass that got Todd started. It was his fault. Todd had never wanted to. Some crap had happened with his parents and they'd all known he'd been against using because of that. Then Lance had come and ruined it all, ruined _Todd_ with his rambling bullshit about his own stress and worries. Pietro had hated him so much he could have killed him. But then…but then he'd seen Lance's face as they'd led Todd into that coldly generic room in the rehab clinic, and the hatred had all evaporated to be replaced by a faintly buzzing sorrow. 

"Are we done yet?"

Tony's irritated words broke the momentary silence, ripping Pietro from his musings and bringing him back to reality with an unpleasant bump.

"Oh, no, of course not," he said, quickly regaining his calm composure. "A couple more, Tony, and the day's pleasantries will be over."

"So get on with it."

Pietro raised an eyebrow. "Why of course. Let's see, how old did you say you were again?"

"Seventeen, dumbass."

"Duly noted, thank you. And when did you start using?"

"Right before I turned thirteen."

"That's a young age to start, Tony."

"Fuck you. I was mature."

"You think being mature has anything to do with it?"

"You thinkin' about getting your throat cut?"

The two males locked gazes, twin sets of frosted sapphires burning into each other, one with young violence while another with calm knowing.

"Why the hell do you keep _do_ing that?" Tony demanded after a minute, the fine muscles in his face taut with anger.

"Doing what?" Pietro asked innocently, settling back comfortably in his chair.

"Making death wishes."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Tony."

"Yes you do. You keep saying shit to make me mad."

"I'm asking you questions. That's my job."

Tony sighed impatiently. "Yeah, well you're pissin' me off on purpose. Is this some sort of fucked-up way that Albert rich-white-bastard Einstein invented?"

"I highly doubt that Albert Einstein was rich, Tony."

"Stop changing the subject."

"Well, what was the subject?"

"Why do you keep tryin' to piss me off?"

"Like I said before, Tony, I'm not. I'm only asking you questions."

Tony glanced at the clock, then shook his head. "Whatever. Get on with it."

"Why did you start at such a young age?"

"Wanted to."

"That's not a reason."

"To hell with you. It's a reason if I say it is."

"Peer pressure? Family problems?"

"Neither. I wanted to. Next question."

~15 Years Before~

"Yo, are you sure about this?" Todd Tolensky asked, apprehensively studying the brown roll of paper in front of him. He reached forward and lightly fingered the coarse material. "I mean, is this such a good idea?"

"Shut up, Todd, it's not the end of the world," Pietro snapped, settling back on the couch. "One won't kill you."

"I know," the light-haired boy said meekly. "It's just…it's just, remember that thing I told you about? And I said that – "

"Shut the _fuck_ up!" 

"Oh." Todd quickly snapped his mouth shut. "Sorry." He lowered his gaze back upon the brownish paper, then up again to the three older boys, all stoned and sitting side by side on the couch. 

" – and all he did was bitch – " Lance was saying, his words brimming with sluggish bitterness as he rambled on to no one in particular. " – and my job was fuckin' shit, you know? Stupid asshole always telling me what to do…"

Todd licked his lips, perspiration forming on his skin. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad…

"…and when I was fuckin' home I was always so fuckin' tired I coulda killed myself. I didn't – I didn't want you guys to fuckin' see all the goddamn shit goin' on with me and – and then that fuckin' little whore of a woman was always fuckin' people behind my fuckin' back…" Lance paused to curse quietly to himself. His breathing was rapid and harsh, as if he'd just run to Canada and back. Todd studied him for a moment, a feeling of deep uneasiness growing in his veins. He fleetingly remembered watching his parents getting stoned in the living room while he got ready for school, and he remembered telling himself that that would never be him. He'd never be like that. He'd never abandon his family, he'd never throw his life away like they had. He'd never put himself to something else's mercy. 

"…had to get out, you know? Fuckin' get some control in my goddamn life. Live a little. Then that fuckin' dealer guy came and saved my life, man…"

It wouldn't be that bad. It's not like he'd ever get addicted…Todd chewed on his lip. The other three were all doing it. He wasn't scared.

"Fuckin' gives this shit to me for dirt cheap. You wanna fuckin' know how much I got this for? A fuckin' hundred. That jackass is m'savior…he fuckin' is."

"Uh-huh," Fred muttered greasily, his brow gleaming with sweat as he leaned forward heavily to grab a paper.

" – this is all the fuckin' control I need in this jacked-up life. Don't care about anythin' and everythin's not so fuckin' screwed anymore. Don't care about that stupid cunt and all this shit. What the hell is it anyway? Just a fuckin' time passer for a fuckin' helluva long life – " Lance paused to inhale swiftly, filling his mind with serenity in the form of immaculate powder.

Todd licked his lips nervously, watching his friends sniff feverishly every thirty seconds. Could it really be that bad? Could it? _Just once, maybe_ – he gripped the rough paper tightly between his fingers, probing the coarse spots. _Just once. Once won't kill you. You can't let your friggin' parents get in the way of your whole goddamn life _– he studied the roll_. They were on something else, not this. This isn't the same thing. Totally different. As long as you never use what they were on_ – he swallowed – _you'll never end up like them. All fucked-up and not caring about you or anyone else in the world besides themselves and their pills. You won't end up like them_ – he tapped the fine powder out onto a piece of foil, carefully placing the roll back onto the table when he was done_. You won't end up like them. You won't end up like them. You won't end up like them. _He inhaled sharply, shooting crystals of paradise into his brain_. You won't end up like them. You won't end up like them. You won't end up – you won't end up like them. You won't end up – you won't – you won't – won't – you – _

A pleased smile settled on his lips and he giggled slightly, carelessly dropping the foil to the floor. "This…this is the shit, yo," he whispered, his voice trembling with awe and jubilation. "The shit! I can see the fuckin' sun, yo! The sun and the moon and the stars!" He collapsed onto his back, giggles bubbling from his throat. _You – won't –_ … 

~Present Time~

"Well then, Tony. Why don't we get back to the basics?" Pietro suggested, folding his hands neatly across the desk.

Tony shrugged. "Whatever, man. Just finish by three."

"Do you have any brothers or sisters, Tony?"

"Two of each."

Pietro nodded slightly. "How old are they?"

"_Why_ the fuck are you asking me that? You already know."

"Just answer the question."

Tony sighed impatiently. "Five, nine, twelve, thirteen." 

"Thank you. And I see that you are the oldest?"

"Yeah…."

"How do you like them, as far as siblings go?"

Tony shrugged. "They're okay, I guess. Fuckin' annoying sometimes."

Pietro scratched his head. "I'm guessing that you don't see them very often, Tony."

"Enough," Tony replied shortly.

"Do they come visit you?"

"Yeah."

"A lot?"

"Yeah."

Pietro looked up, his pale eyes unreadable. "You haven't had any visitations for the past six months, Tony." 

The young boy snapped his head up at that and glared furiously. "Fuck you. Maybe I don't want to see them."

"Why would that be?"

"They're fuckin' pricks, that's why."

"Your mother allow them to see you?" Pietro asked shrewdly. 

Tony narrowed his eyes. "Screw you."

"Does she?"

"None o' your fuckin' business."

"Like I said before, you business is my business."

"Yeah, and fuck you, asshole. Don't try an' pry into my life. You don't know nothin' about me."

"As little as I may know, Tony, it's still my job to help you."

Tony snorted in derision. "Help me with _what_? You don't fuckin' help me with anything, asshole, except make me hate people like you more than I already do."

"I'm sorry about that, Tony."

"Don't fuckin' be. I'm not."

"Then you should reconsider that sometime," Pietro replied, smiling wanly. "It just may change your perspective on things."

"What the hell're you talking about?"

Pietro shrugged innocently. "Very random things, and for that I digress. Let's focus." He rubbed his hands together and cracked his knuckles, smiling expectantly at the boy before him. "Let's see…what were we discussing? Brothers and sisters…ah. One moment, please." He flipped open the file folder that lay on his desk and pulled out a set of papers, all paper-clipped together. He removed the paper-clip and slipped on his reading glasses, shuffling briefly through the papers before settling on one. "I understand that the oldest child next to you is Russell?"

"Yeah."

"Are you two close?"

Tony glared at him in reply. "I haven't seen him in six months, smartass. Stop asking me questions you know the answer to."

"I was talking about before that," Pietro answered mildly.

"Then no. We weren't fuckin' close. He was an annoying bastard."

Pietro frowned and removed his glasses. "He goes from being all right, to a prick, to an annoying bastard." He whistled softly. "Make up your mind, Tony."

"Whatever," Tony said flatly, crossing his arms across his chest.

"Do you know if Russell, or any of your siblings, for that matter, does or has done drugs before?"

Tony grinned sardonically at that. "Why? You gonna haul 'em in, too?"

"No, I was just curious."

"Well fuck you. I'm not here to fill your fuckin' curiosity."

"Of course you're not. Why don't we discuss your mother?"

Tony frowned, the faintest apprehension glowing in his icy eyes. "Yeah? What's to discuss?"

"I'm guessing that you two haven't had the best relations," Pietro replied.

Tony shrugged in feigned casualness. "She's a hypocritical bitch."

"Why do you say that?" Pietro asked.

"She just is."

"There must be reason."

"Yeah. She's a hypocritical bitch."

Pietro smiled dryly. "Well said. Could you elaborate?"

"What else is there to say?" Tony demanded. "She's. A. Hypocritical. Bitch. I hate her."

Pietro nodded. "I understand that she has a record for drug possession."

Tony looked furious. "_That_ is what I fuckin' mean! You already know! Stop asking me all this useless shit!"

"It isn't," Pietro replied smoothly. "It's very important, and whether I know it already or not, it's still essential that I ask you."

Tony glowered at him. "Fuck you. All you rich bastards are fuckin' screwed in the head."

"I agree."

"You don't know shit about me, you know that?"

"I most probably don't," Pietro agreed.

"You don't know shit about people like me, either."

Pietro smiled at that, raising his eyebrows and smirking slightly at the young boy. "_That_ I'll have to argue with."

~Fifteen Years Before~

Pietro Maximoff licked his lips nervously, his slender fingers pressed against the cold glass. Outside, a light snow was falling, its silky whiteness partially blotting out the grayish slush and mud that blanketed the nearly-empty parking lot. He licked his lips again and turned agitated eyes toward the clock on the wall. Lance was two and a half hours late. What if something had happened to him?

"He here yet, sweetie?" Rosa, the plump-faced attendant, gazed worriedly at him. "Why don't you give him a call? I'm sure it just slipped his mind."

Pietro opened his mouth to tell her that he had already done so, three times, all answered by the flat-toned operator saying that the number he had dialed no longer existed. But then he changed his mind. As it was, the way she kept watching him in that motherly-sympathetic manner made him want to scream. Instead, he found himself saying something entirely different. "No, actually he's here. He just pulled in." He smiled quickly at her and pushed open the door, slipping out before she could reply. He started making his way into the parking lot, his footsteps purposeful though his heart was not. Shifting the duffel onto one shoulder, he continued walking until the building and the parking lot were far behind him and a deserted highway stood before him. A scathing wind rushed upon his thin frame, knawing through his clothing and sinking its fangs into his pale flesh. He shivered and wrapped his arms about himself, half-yearning to go back to the building. He could never walk. It was over twenty miles away. Meanwhile, nightfall was approaching and it was cold. He could just wait inside; wait for a half-hour or so. Lance had a lot on his mind. So what if he had forgotten? 

Pietro shook his head, wishing that he could believe himself. He hadn't spoken to Lance for over two months now, whether by phone or by visitation. The older boy had seemingly ceased to exist. First the phone calls went unanswered, and then, about a month ago, the number had disappeared. Pietro had convinced himself that Lance had changed the number and forgotten to tell him, or had simply forgotten to pay the bill. What other explanation could there be? Lance couldn't just vanish. 

Despite the lack of communication, Pietro had told himself that Lance would be there to pick him up on his last day. It was important, after all. He couldn't just forget. It would be Pietro's first homecoming after a whole year in the Bayville Juvenile Detention Center. Certainly Lance would have marked that on the calendar with plenty of asterics and exclamation points. One member of the scanty remains of his family would be coming home. Coming home.

They would turn everything around. Pietro had repeatedly promised himself that; through long days and harsh night in juvie, he'd sworn on his own life that when he got out, they would change things. They'd get their lives back. They'd move on. Lance would get clean and they would go back to school and work. Then Todd would come home in a couple months, clean of course, and they'd all be happy again. They'd have each other and they wouldn't fuck things up again. Ever. They were too smart for that now.

Nevertheless, Pietro could taste the slight sourness of foreboding on his tongue, and he pushed it away impatiently. So what if Lance wasn't answering the phone? So what if the two of them hadn't spoken in over two months? So what if Lance had never come to pick him up? 

It didn't mean anything. It didn't mean that something had happened to Lance; it didn't mean that Lance had defected and skipped town on him. It didn't mean that Lance was dead or stoned on some person's driveway; it didn't mean _anything_. Because he was finally coming home. How could it mean something when he was finally coming home? When their lives were finally turning around and taking the opposite course?

He had changed greatly throughout his time in juvie. He knew that. Thanks to _her_ and a great many other things, he was now a soft, hopeful little prick. The old Pietro would never be thinking like this; like _everything_ would be okay once he came home. He was so different now and he had yet to discover whether or not it was for the better. Somehow his eyes had opened, maybe it was what _she_ had told him in her sharp, matter-of-fact way that had caused it.

He'd seen too many despondent teenagers and hard-faced children to _not_ change. Kids that hadn't even struck puberty yet with faces set in stone and nothing left in their hearts that would make them care. He'd seen too much and it had all made him realize one thing: he was a helluva lot luckier than a very large percentage of the world, and unlike them, he had the opportunity to be _good_. 

So this was the new him. The new, improved, overly-optimistic him. God, would it even work? The situation was most definitely pointing south as of now. 

Pietro shivered again, briskly rubbing his arms for warmth. He still had a couple hours of hard walking to do. _Where_ could Lance have gone? 

Almost without thinking, Pietro kicked into super-sonic mode and zipped down the deserted road, fleetingly wondering as the trees flew by why he was so eager to come home to something that could not be good.


	3. My Hell Intermingling With His Hell

****

Authors Notes – Hi! Sorry it took a while to get this out, but I finished it last week but then I decided all the Tony scenes sucked majorly, so I redid them, and they still suck so uh…yeah. Their both reeaaal short cuz I couldn't think of anything else to discuss. I also started working on another fic which will be pretty long. It's BH angst of course and it'll be called Footprints in the Sky. Please look out for that in like…a week? Anywho, this chapter's pretty freakish. Have fun!

Chapter Three ~ My Hell Intermingling With His Hell

"So you think you do?" Tony sneered, his upper lip curled into a spiteful expression. "Then tell me, what do you know, being the rich smart motherfucker of the world that you are."

"You're making assumptions," Pietro replied, looking vaguely amused. "Maybe I wasn't rich my whole life."

"But you _were_," Tony snapped viciously. "That's what makes the difference. That's why you don't know shit."

"Maybe I don't," Pietro said, shrugging. "But maybe I do. You don't know me very well, you know."

Tony frowned at him. "Yeah? Then tell me something about yourself, asshole. What makes you so much smarter than the rest of us?"

"I never said I was smarter," Pietro said mildly. "I simply – "

"Get to the point," Tony cut him off impatiently. 

Pietro smiled and studied his hands carefully before answering. "All I said was that you don't know me. For all you know, I could…I could…" He paused, a dreamy smile coming to his lips, and he turned to Tony, his crystalline-flecked eyes clouding slightly. "I could be a mutant recruited by my psychotic dad - whom I had never met until then – to fight some unknown battle against mankind. Maybe he ditched me and three other guys; left us living alone in some dilapidated old house with nothing in the world but each other. For…for all you know, we could have been broke and poor and delinquents and hungry for something else besides screwed lives and messed-up pasts, but maybe we stuck together. Maybe we started getting into drugs and whatnot even though we hardly had enough money to pay for our food, and maybe one of us…maybe one of us OD'd and died. For all you know, we could have decided to quit after that, to make amends. Maybe one of us wouldn't. Maybe one of us _couldn't_. Maybe one got sent to rehab and I got sent to juvie the next year, and when I came home there was nothing left. Maybe the house was gone; maybe I couldn't find the pitiful remains of my makeshift family anywhere. For all you know, I could have finally found one of them – in jail. Maybe my friend…maybe my friend was no longer my friend anymore, but a hostile stranger that didn't care what happened to any of the rest of us because he had spent all of his caring, because he'd lost too much of himself to care anymore. Maybe I was angry and said some stupid things and messed everything up; maybe I left and never saw my friend ever again. Maybe I went to find the other one, the one in rehab, to be told that he'd run away two years ago. _Two years ago_." Pietro chuckled softly and shook his head, not noticing Tony's doubtful expression. "Maybe I screwed around after that; maybe I wanted to throw over my life because there didn't seem to be anything left to hold me back. But…but hey, for all you know I could have made it. I could have pulled myself out of a mile-deep pit. Sure, maybe I was dirty and tired, but I could have made it, right? I could have – hey, maybe I did." He smiled lightly at the incredulous boy in front of him, ignoring the skeptical expression on his face. There was a moment of dubious silence as the two of them stared at each other, the older recounting something beyond the other's comprehension, the younger not knowing what to think – or say.

"_What_ the hell are you talking about?" Tony said finally.

Pietro smiled elusively. "Nothing."

Tony frowned at him. "What do you mean, nothing? What the hell were you talking about there?"

"It was just an example. I didn't say it was me."

"Oh…" Tony sighed, a little disappointedly. This didn't escape Pietro's notice, and he looked up sharply, a thin smile quivering on his lips.

"You sound disappointed by that," he said.

Tony rolled his eyes. "No. I was just thinkin' that what you're talkin' about…." He shrugged in feigned casualness, gazing down at his hands so he wouldn't have to look at his counselor. "It sounds…it sounds pretty fucked-up." For some reason, he felt uncomfortable saying this, and he hesitated slightly before looking up again. When he did, Pietro was staring at him with a queer, intangible expression on his face. For a moment the two just looked at each other, and then the older's lips parted ever so slightly. 

"It was." He said quietly, and when he spoke those two insignificant syllables, somehow, _somehow_, Tony – the unobservant smartass streetkid that always seemed to be too blinded by his hatred to just _see_ – somehow, he knew that the sleek, impudent man before him was more than he could ever comprehend. Much more. 

~Sixteen Years Before~

"Can I help you?" A bored-looking attendant stared up at him, the jowels of flab on her blotchy cheeks quivering as she spoke.

"Um…yeah. I'd like to see Lance Alvers," Pietro said, trying to sound confident but failing miserably.

She frowned at him, clearly annoyed that this would mean work for her. "You family?" She demanded rudely.

"Yeah," Pietro lied, "I'm his brother."

She glowered at him for a moment, unfocused brown eyes shadowed by too much makeup disdainfully scrutinizing his obvious discomfiture. "Come with me," she said finally, heaving to her feet and waddling toward a dimly-lit hallway on their left.

They entered a large, empty room with a wall of glass cutting across the center and counters and telephones for the inmates and their visitors.

"Wait a minute," she ordered, and trundled off to speak with a man at the other door. After a moment, she returned, and said gruffly, "S'down and he'll be out in a minute." She started to leave, but then, as an afterthought, she added, "you got ten minutes, an' your conversation'll be monitored. Come out when you're done." With that, she lumbered away, leaving Pietro standing in the bare room.

After a minute, he painstakingly took a seat on one of the cold metal chairs in front of him, keeping his frosted eyes set on the double doors across from him. They whooshed open and the faceless guard came in with an orange-clad figure at his side. Relief, pain, sadness, regret, remembrance and fear immediately flooded Pietro's veins in one giant, icy tidal wave as Lance took a seat before him, looking vaguely interested by his new surroundings.

"Lance," Pietro immediately uttered, a bitter tang seeping across his tongue as he laid eyes on his older friend for the first time in almost three months. "Lance," he said again, then realized that he had to use the telephone. He quickly lifted the greasy black receiver to his ear, his heart pounding wildly and his eyes never leaving Lance's face.

"Lance!" He almost shouted, a toppling wave of emotion coursing through his veins. The dark-haired boy lifted the receiver to his ear in reply, no feeling evident on his face. His cheeks were sallow and stretched tightly across his bones, and his once richly chocolate eyes were replaced by a smoldering ashen color. His body, which had once been so strong and rugged, was now a diminished little frame blanketed by a filmy layer of pallid flesh. Had it been the jailtime that had done this to him? Or had it been the drugs?

"Lance," he said again, wishing that his friend would say something and stop staring at him in that frighteningly impassionate way. He looked so…so…so cold and uncaring and not like _Lance_ had always looked. "Lance, are you ok?" Pietro blathered stupidly, briefly wondering why he was asking that when the answer was so evident. "I – I mean – when Blake told me you were here – I came down here as soon as possible – but – "

"Not bad," the boy that was Lance but wasn't Lance cut him off, grinning sardonically through pinched lips that belonged on someone else.

"How – what – what happened?" Pietro stammered, his spindly fingers clenching the receiver so tightly that his knuckles had long since turned white. "I – I mean – I meanwhathappened?HowdidyougetinhereImeanaretheygonnaletyouout?"

Lance smiled frostily at him. "I dunno, Speedy, it just might be more than you can handle."

"No – no," Pietro mumbled, a shiver running down his spine. "Tell me."

"Federal assault," Lance replied with a casual sweep of his hand, as if he were speaking about the weather. "Almost killed that stupid bastard. I woulda, too, if he hadn't used that fuckin' pepper shit." He grimaced. "I got twelve years."

"Twe – twelve years?" Pietro repeated, everything else flying over his head but those two words. "Twelve _years_? What? Why? They can't – they can't give you twelve fuckin' years for that!" His hands were trembling violently and he almost dropped the receiver. "You're joking," he said weakly. "They can't give you twelve years. No way."

Lance smiled twistedly. "Like hell I am. Why would I kid you about somethin' like that? They're rich, I'm not. I got twelve years."

"But you have parole, right? I mean, you'll be able to get out once in a while?"

"No parole," Lance replied lazily, stretching out his legs. After a minute, he added, "who wants it, anyway?"

"Wha – what?" Pietro cried, aghast. This wasn't Lance speaking. This wasn't Lance; this wasn't the same Lance that had bent over backwards to help Freddy study for that big Chemistry test last year, this wasn't the same Lance that had made lame-assed jokes at times that they'd all needed a good laugh, this wasn't the same Lance that had stayed up all night that one time that Todd was sick and vomiting all over the house, this wasn't the same Lance that had _cared_. This wasn't Lance at all, just some perverted impersonator that possessed his cocky face and bold features. _Lance_ wouldn't say this. "Why do you say that? Don't – don't you _want_ it?" Even to his own ears, he sounded frightened and beseeching.

Lance grinned. "Why the hell would I want it? I'm _glad _they didn't give it to me."

"_Why_?"

"Think about it, Speedy," Lance said mockingly. "It's not like I'd fuckin' have anywhere to go. Our house is fuckin' gone, and we don't have any money. There's nothin' out there that I want to return to."

"But…but…what – what about me?" Pietro whispered, his heart constricting. "What am I supposed to do?"

Lance laughed out loud at that, an entirely mirthless laugh that made Pietro's stomach churn. "You always were fuckin' selfish, Pietro. Always thinking about yourself and what everyone should do to suit _you_. God, one of your many qualities…." He shook his head bemusedly. "Too bad it won't all work out that way today."

Salty tears formed in Pietro's eyes as he listened to this stranger's cold words. This wasn't Lance. This wasn't Lance. "What about Todd?" He burst out, an uninvited sob fracturing his words. "What about your family? Don't we _mean_ anything to you? Don't you _care_?"

Lance shrugged nonchalantly. "Why should I?"

Pietro fiercely wiped away the tears that streamed down his cheeks in endless rivers. His short temper curdled with blistering hatred at this imposter, this cold-hearted felon that sat here and smirked at him through too-amused lips. "Asshole," he spat, his rage getting in the way of his good judgment. When Lance looked up, startled at that, he continued, contempt poorly masking his pained words. "_You're_ the fuckin' selfish bastard. You only think about yourself. You always have. _You're_ the one that got Todd started_, you're_ the reason that Fred's dead, it's _your_ fault that our family's in such fuckin' shit." Pain wrenched through his heart as he listened to himself speak, and he yearned to tell Lance that he didn't mean any of it; he didn't blame Lance, he never had. Yet…he couldn't stop. His grief dragged him along relentlessly. "I hate you. You brought us all into this stupid shit and you can't even fuckin' get us out! Me an' Todd – Todd, your fuckin' little brother, Lance! Your fuckin' _little brother_!" He was dimly aware that he was screaming but he couldn't hold himself in. "You trash us all; you kill Fred, you ruin Todd, and you leave me here to deal with all your SHIT! You always fuckin' have and I don't fuckin' know _why_ the hell I'm surprised now! Stay here, Lance, I don't really give a fuck! Forget about your family, your fuckin' _family_ for God's sake! The people that have put up with all o' your worthless shit for so long because we fuckin' _cared_! STAY HERE! I DON'T CARE! You're a selfish, useless, lazy asshole and I hope you fuckin' rot in hell!" He was overcome by a torrent of sobs and he collapsed back into his chair, all the hatred gone from his body and dried sorrow left behind in the cracks. He wanted to tell Lance that he didn't mean it, he didn't mean _anything_ that he had just said. It was all wrong and biased and fabrications of an anguished mind, yet he couldn't find anything in him to tell Lance so. Lance, who was looking at him with something unreadable in his eyes – was it pain? – as he spoke.

"You don't know what you're talkin' about." He said coldly. "You think I don't give a shit? You think I don't _care_? Fuck you, Pietro, I almost _killed_ someone for you." He turned blazing eyes upon the white-haired boy, his lips contorting furiously as he spoke. "You wanna hear it, Pietro? Huh? Do you?" When Pietro merely looked at him through red-rimmed eyes, he said nastily, "well, too bad. You're gonna hear it. You're gonna hear _me_. For once, you're gonna fuckin' hear what _I_ gotta say. 

"After you went to juvie, that fuckin' nosy bastard cop kept comin' by, snooping around, trying to find shit out about us so he could split us up. He hated us, you know, 'cause we were the miscreants of society. We bruised this fuckin' system, we made it ugly. He wanted us apart and he was willing to do anything it took to get us that fuckin' way. He was always comin' around, trash talking all of us and telling me what fuckin' delinquents we were. Well, after a while I snapped. I almost killed the fuckin' bastard and I wish I had, but then that fuckin' pepper spray…" He paused to glare hatefully at Pietro. "I got twelve years for that. Twelve years for _you_. Twelve years for an ungrateful bastard. I got twelve years of hell for _you_ and you're sitting here, all high and mighty, telling me that I'm worthless, that I don't care." He paused, his words swelling with fury. "If you think I'm a worthless bastard, then look at yourself. Here you are, bitchin' me out, beggin' me to get parole which I couldn't get even if I wanted to. You can't do anything for yourself. You don't know _how_ to do anything for yourself. Always hiding behind me, too scared to step out, an' then, when everything goes to hell, you blame me. I was the one that took care of a fuckin' bastard like you, I was the one that took you in when my life was already buried in ten feet of shit. I coulda thrown your sorry ass out on the street, but I didn't, did I? I didn't leave you to die. But you – you would have in a bare second. More work for you, Speedy, and you woulda turned and run away. Even with Todd, you weren't thinking about him. You were thinkin' about yourself, how _you_ would be bothered if we didn't give him the fuckin' drugs he was lookin' for. Unlike you, asshole, I cared; I wanted to help him even if it meant losing him. Maybe he hated me for it and maybe I wasn't keeping my own promises, but I was saving _his_ fuckin' life. So don't you ever call me worthless and don't you ever tell me that I didn't _care_. I cared more about you guys than you could ever care for the whole fuckin' world." 

~Present Time~

Silence dragged on for over a minute in the tiny office, both Pietro and Tony thinking about something other than this counseling session and each other. Finally, the thread of quiet was broken by an abrupt knocking at the door.

"Come in," Pietro said, jumping slightly at the pounding. A bushy-haired thirty-something woman stuck her head in, smiling apologetically. "Sorry to interrupt," she said rapidly, "but I wasn't sure if you guys were done or not and I didn't know if I should wait in the car. Are you finished? I can wait in the lobby if you want me to, but I've really gotta be home by three-thirty because it's Marty's birthday today and I've got to set up for his party – "

"It's all right, Karen," Pietro said graciously, neatly stacking Tony's papers and placing them back in the file folder. "We were just finishing up. Ready, Tony?"

"What? Oh, yeah." The young boy leaped to his feet, suddenly eager to leave. "Good to go. Let's get the hell outta here." With that, he tore out of the room without bothering to say good-bye.Pietro smiled and shook his head as the footsteps became more and more diminished. "He's a nice kid, Tony is." 

Karen looked mildly shocked. "That's generous," she said, shaking her head. "I don't even say that yet, and I've known him for close to four months."

Pietro smiled in reply and stood up, stretching as he did so. "He is…hell, what a guy's been through…it's hard not to expect some sarcasm outta someone who's lived his entire life the way he has. I almost understand."

~Sixteen Years Before~

"What'd you say his name was again?" The secretary asked politely, peering up at him through thick round glasses that greatly magnified her eyes.

"Todd Tolensky," Pietro said impatiently, drumming his fingers rapidly against the counter. "T-o-l-e-n-s-k-y. Tolensky."

The secretary nodded and resumed her thumbing through the file cabinet at a pace that Pietro found maddening. "I'm sorry," she said after a couple of minutes, shaking her head. "Maybe I have the wrong spelling. Could you repeat that one more time?"

Pietro gritted his teeth and repeated it for her. 

"I'm sorry," she said again after two more futile attempts at locating Todd's file. "Are you sure you're at the right center? There's another one about three miles away, maybe you'd like to try there – "

"No," Pietro interrupted curtly. "He's here, lady. I know it. Look again."

She frowned at him as if longing to tell him to fuck off, but complied anyway. "I'm sorry," she said, shrugging, after flipping through one more time. "There is no Todd Tolensky here."

"Yes there is," Pietro retorted, feeling an uncomfortable combination of fear and anger fill his throat. "I'm positive. Todd Tolensky. He's been here for about two years."

The secretary shrugged helplessly and started to look again just as a tiny nurse barged into the room. 

"Hey!" Pietro said immediately, recognizing her wiry hair and bird-like structure. "Hey, you! Don't you know Todd Tolensky?"

She paused, looking annoyed at this interruption to her busy schedule. "Who?" She demanded, her hands planted on her hips.

"Todd Tolensky," Pietro repeated impatiently. "You're his nurse, I remember! Todd Tolensky, y'know?"

She frowned and tapped her nail against her chin. "Todd Tolensky…sounds familiar…"

"About sixteen now? Short and skinny?"

"Hm…" The nurse scratched her head. "The name sounds familiar, but I don't think he's one of my patients."

"Yes he is! Yes he is!" Pietro cried, agitated. "He's been here for two years! You're his nurse!"

"Oh, Todd Tolensky!" She said suddenly. "I remember now. Yes, Todd. What about him?"

"I need to see him," Pietro said hurriedly. "It's really important."

She gave him a strange look. "Todd doesn't go here anymore."

There was a sudden pause in which Pietro gazed disbelievingly at the nurse. "Wha-what? What the hell are you talking about?" He sputtered. "He's gone here for two years! Don't give me that!"

The nurse frowned skeptically, her bird-like features sharply jutting from her face in doubt. "He doesn't go here anymore," she said again, her voice firm. "Maybe you should try somewhere else."

"No!" Pietro yelled suddenly, feeling the helplessness melted into anger. "No! I won't! He's gone here for two years, you fuckin' whore! Tell me where he is and don't give me that 'I don't know what the hell you're talking about' bullshit!" 

The nurse and the secretary exchanged uncomfortable looks, unsure of what to say. "He doesn't go here anymore," the nurse repeated nervously after a moment. "I think you should leave."

"No!" Pietro retorted, his icy eyes blazing with a violent fire. "No, you stupid whore! Don't lie to me! Where the _fuck_ is he?" He lunged forward suddenly, catching the frightened nurse by surprise and pinning her against the wall, a hand clutched tightly about her throat. 

"Oh my God…" she whimpered, her eyes darting about frantically. "Oh my God…"

"Where the hell is he?" Pietro shouted, his fingers tightly gripping her thin neck.

"He…he ran away…almost as soon as he got here…" she whispered, her fingers scrabbling frantically at the wall, as if searching for some sort of escape. "He – he ran away…"

There was a pause. "Why the fuck didn't I know?" Pietro said dangerously, digging his nails into her tender skin. "Why the _fuck_ didn't anyone tell me? Tell Lance? We're his fuckin' _family_, for God's sake! We're his _family_!"

"Be-because…I don't know," she said, sobbing piteously. "I don't know why we never contacted you…"

"Fuckin' whore…" he breathed, clammy perspiration veiling his pearly skin. "You fuckin' whore…I should kill you. I should blow this fuckin' center down to the ground."

"Please…"

"Don't move!" Pietro yelled, sensing the secretary shift behind him. "You move, I'll kill her. I'll kill both of you. Fuckin' whores…" He tightened his grip on her throat, causing her to cry out.

"I…I can't breathe…" She gasped, glistening tears squeezing from between her eyelashes. "Please…I can't breathe…"

"Fuck you," Pietro sneered, though his eyes stung with a fiery pain. He angrily wiped away the intruding wetness that dribbled from his eyes, wondering just why he was crying, just why it hurt so much. "Fuck you," he repeated softly. "Fuck you. My friend couldn't breathe either, you know that? My friend couldn't breathe, and he died like that. Ever wonder what that feels like? Huh? Do you, you little whore?" 

"No…" she whispered, her breaths coming in grating pants. "Please…I have a son. Please – "

"So you got a family?" Pietro interrupted harshly. "You got a family, too? I do. I did, at least. Then one of 'em died and the other two got themselves even more fucked up than they already were. I thought I'd get 'em back, y'know? I thought we'd fix everything that we'd screwed up…" He dug his nails into her neck again, hard, until she let out a cry of pain and warm blood started to trickle from between his fingers. "I thought we'd fix everything," he repeated, crying now. "I thought we'd fix everything and we wouldn't fuck it up again. But now…but now…thanks to you, thanks to an evil bitch, we never will." He gazed hatefully into her frightened eyes, relishing the fear and horror that lay reflected in their too-blue color. "Why'd you let him run away? Why the fuck would you let him go die, you slut? Huh? Answer me!" He shook her violently, causing her to cry out again.

"I…I…" She whispered, her tiny voice trailing off meekly. 

"You didn't care, did you?" Pietro said bitterly. "You didn't give a fuck. He was just some delinquent addict to you, it didn't matter if he died. It didn't matter that he had a family, did it? It didn't matter that he was supposed to come home…" He gazed out the window, a sallow hatred burning in his eyes. "He was just another kid to you…just another loser kid tryin' to kick it on the streets…did you know that his favorite food was cheeseburgers? Did you know that he loved to read, even though he was failing every class in school because his teachers never gave a fuck? Did you know that he never wanted to do drugs, but the world was so fuckin' screwed that he did 'em anyway, just for the trip? Did you know that he had a family that loved him…?" He stared at her for a moment, his jaw clenched and intermingled perspiration and tears streaming from his face. "You didn't did you?" he said softly, more to himself than her. "Fuck you. Fuck…you." Shaking his head disgustedly, he turned and left the building.

****

Authors Notes – Hey, it's me again! I hope you liked, and as you can tell, I was angry…or on drugs when I wrote that last scene. I credit Alanis Morissette cuz I always listen to her really old angry cd when I write this because it um gives me inspiration but that sounded pretty screwed didn't it? Yeah, so you can ignore me because I just took a buncha VERY LONG midterms and my mind's still functioning in sine and cosine and tangent and fatty acids and carbohydrates…so uh yeah. Back to the point: the grand finale aka chapter four and then some will be out in two weeks? I hope? Whatever…REVIEWREVIEWREVIEWREVIEWREVIEWNUCLEOTIDES – err…review. Yeah.


	4. Our Sun's Descent

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Authors Notes – Hey! Okay, I realize that I said two weeks for chapter four, and it's been like a month, so I'm really, really sorry. I was busy. Actually, no I wasn't, I just had writer's block. And ALSO: this is no longer the last chapter! There'll be one more after this, because I had this sudden urge to add two more flashbacks to the story. This chapter is really short, about four pages, which is sad because it took me a whole month to write it…You'll get some insight into the old lady that Pietro mentioned in chapter two, but you won't exactly find out until chapter five. Also, this chapter might not make much sense. See, my method of writing was to write a sentence, get up, go away for several hours, come back, write a paragraph, and come back the next day, etc. So…enjoy! 

Chapter Four ~ Our Sun's Descent

A warm sun washed across Pietro's exposed cheeks, temporarily overpowering the frigidity that rested upon the air. He strode toward his car – a generic silver Taurus stained by the dirt and salt that accompanied winter months – and reached for the door handle, his mind on nothing else except getting home to his apartment. It was nearing five o'clock, and after Tony's departure nearly two hours ago, he had toiled diligently over a towering stack of paperwork before suddenly deciding to split. He had needed a break. This was unusual, because he usually didn't leave work until after seven. After all, it wasn't like he had a family that was expecting him, or a girlfriend, or even a friend – 

Pietro stopped, half-bent over and his hand still resting upon the door handle. He wondered just when in his life he had stopped having friends. Somehow, he had never noticed it.

He straightened up, whitish plumes of breath dangling gently before his lips, and frowned into the darkening parking lot. Strangely, the iciness of the air no longer stung his cheeks and the dying rays of sunlight no longer evoked warmth. He briefly wondered why it didn't bother him – the lack of human contact besides at work – just why he wasn't more surprised. Maybe he had semiconsciously known all along, like those people that wake up after a twenty-year coma and know what happened yesterday and the day before and everything. He wondered if he was like them, in some respects: drifting uneasily through a deathlike reverie, hearing but not knowing everything that was happening to him, and only realizing it when he was ripped from the coma and suddenly flooded by a deluge of knowledge. 

Maybe this was an epiphany – this tiny electric shock of comprehension that nibbled at his system, not causing any damage but irritating him enough to make him stop in his tracks and recognize it's presence. Maybe this was reality deciphered for his clumsy lips, maybe this was a cryptic unraveled. 

__

Maybe you're just a dumbass, he thought before he could stop himself. He quickly reminded himself that he was a thirty-something unmarried man that worked for money and lived for pleasure. And here he was, talking like the teenager that he no longer was, that he would never be.

But it was difficult to break a habit that had been taking place for over eighteen years of his life, so arduous to _not_ when he had heard it so many times from lips that decayed in homely graves with no epithets. How old would they be now, if they were still alive? Freddy would be thirty-three. Todd – Todd would be thirty-one. And Lance? What about that dark-eyed, satirical-tongued old man in a teenager's body? How old would he be now, if he had not slit his own throat nearly ten years ago in the Bayville Penitentiary's showers? A hundred or maybe even more – his physicality would be that of a young man's, but his insides…his insides would be a million years old. How could anyone survive with such a vast age weighing down on them like Lance's had? 

Pietro shivered as a dry wind raked its knifelike fingers through his feathery hair, and he drew his coat tightly about him. His feet started moving away from the security of his car and out toward the parking lot exit. Had it been only fourteen years ago that he had walked this same path of existence? Had it been only fourteen years ago that he had left the refuge of familiarity to return to something impalpable, something fraudulently optimistic? He had stepped these exact footsteps before: shivering, bracing himself, squaring his shoulders and bravely heading into his doom. Or was it? Had it ever been his doom? Had it simply been a grotesque phantasm fabricated by his own lingering mentality? Was it still? _What was the difference?_

The difference was that he lacked the passion of his teenage years. He lacked the tears. Why could he no longer cry? Why could his heart never ache anymore, why could his throat never tighten with the detained emotion that had driven him for so many years anymore?

Because it was just another long walk home, that was all. Just another long walk home.

~Fourteen Years Before~

Pietro shivered unwillingly and rubbed his arms briskly, watching his breath condense as it entered the cold air and disperse into ghostly wisps. Thick wet snow fell heavily upon the fatigued city – not the light, airy kind of snow that made you want to throw your maturity to the sidewalk and go build a snowman – but the gray, sludgy kind that clumped on the sidewalk, soaking your shoes and pants and completely depriving you of warmth in your toes. He hated that kind of snow. 

_I hate you…_he gazed at a happy couple giggling and flirting as they walked down the sidewalk. The girl had fiery red hair and emerald green eyes, and the guy had rich copper hair and an insouciant white smile. Both wore thick, fuzzy scarves and wool hats, and the boy had his arm about the girl's slender waist. Pietro's gaze deepened into a hateful expression, and after a moment, the girl sensed his attention and looked at him, her bright green eyes widening in surprise as she took in the malevolence burning in his icy ones. Whispering hurriedly to her boyfriend, they took off down the street in a sudden rush. Pietro shook his head and walked on, trying to ignore the jangling Christmas music that spurted from the red and green lit street shops. He hated this time of year.

He thought of what it would be like to spend the holidays with Blake, his forty-something neighbor with the bristly chin and the terrible speech-impediment. He had been the one that had clued him in about Lance's whereabouts. Not that those had turned out to be of much use, though. The man was nice enough, if not a little abrasive in personality. He'd let Pietro house with him for almost two weeks now, because the former Brotherhood's home was government property now. Pietro hated having to depend on him, and he hated the way that the grimy middle-aged man pitied him. He'd always hated those two feelings; they were associated with helplessness, and if there was anything that he would never allow himself to be, it was helpless.

_But you are…_a part of his brain reminded him gleefully, clearly delighted that it had discovered yet one more incident in which the smart-mouthed speed demon was wrong_. You're a helpless, helpless, helpless bastard. Not a single penny for you…look where all of your fast-talking and boasting got you in the end…_

_Nowhere._ Pietro shook his head and shoved his fists into his pockets, something mysteriously wet and acrid blurring the edges of his vision. Oh, God. Not this. Not again. Not over nothing. He quickened his steps and concentrated on the slushy sidewalk below him, not lifting his gaze until he reached the crumbling yellow split-level that he'd lived in for the past two weeks. _Won't be helpless_. He shoved open the peeling door, not bothering to wipe the grayish snow from his shoes. The strong reek of moldy laundry and cheap cigarette smoke dangled in the foul air, permeating his nostrils with their familiar yet unfamiliar hostility. His family didn't smoke. Not cigarettes. Not anything. He moved numbly toward the kitchen cabinets, not bothering to see if Blake was home or not. Not that he cared, but the older man probably wasn't because he worked evenings. 

__

Won't be helpless. Pietro's hand rested upon the greasy knob of the cabinet, pulling it open and fishing through the messy pile within. After a moment, he withdrew a handful of various pharmaceuticals, his thin fingers quivering slightly. Almost robotically, as if this was what he was planning all along, he twisted the caps to each orange bottle and dumped all of the contents into his palm. One of the pills – it was white, and he thought that it said Advil on it in miniscule red letters – slipped between his fingers and fell to the floor, clattering loudly as it hit the linoleum. He ignored it, but couldn't help but note the symbolic significance that could go behind it's falling to the floor…

__

Helpless. He took a deep breath and tilted his head back, carefully pouring all of the tiny capsules into his mouth. They felt tasteless and plastic-y on his tongue, and he hated the foreign way that they throttled him as he swallowed several times to get them all down. For a while nothing happened, and he waited patiently for close to two minutes before the pain ignited. At first, it felt like his stomach was being tightly compacted between two iron hands, pushing anything within its glutinous depths up his esophagus and out of his mouth. It felt like his insides were being tossed out along with his lunch and breakfast and anything that he'd ever eaten in his entire life – it felt like his heart and his lungs were being ripped from his body and cruelly splattered against the dirty linoleum, that all that would be left in the end was an empty skin and a pair of too-pale, too-cold blue eyes. He choked on his own vomit and blood as it poured from his mouth as easily as water from a faucet, and his skin felt like it was on fire and his legs were rubber beneath him and he collapsed to the linoleum, hacking desperately, and his vision wavering between a screen of black and the frantically spinning kitchen. An animalistic half-scream fell from between his lips, and suddenly his eardrums were pounding with his own anguished cries to the world that surrounded him but didn't hear him. Through all of the pain, he wildly wondered if this was how it had been for Fred: screaming at the top of his lungs and dying before people, so many people, but all of them deaf to his pleas. He wondered if Lance had felt as alone as he felt right now, he wondered if Todd had been exploding from the inside out like he was, he wondered if anyone would care that he was going to die…

He wondered…God, he wondered why the hell everything hurt so bad and why the hell everything was so fucked-up and why the hell he felt so helpless when this was his chance to take control, to tell the world to fuck off before he went floating… 

Right before he blacked out, he remembered someone – had it been his ninth grade guidance counselor? – matter-of-factly telling the class during some self-esteem campaign that those that committed suicide were the weak ones. He had staunchly agreed with her then in all of his overconfident idiocy, telling himself that people that put themselves in that position – that drowned in their own helplessness – were stupid and deserved to die if they weren't even going to try. Well, now…now, he thought differently. Now he knew what it was really like, now he knew just how real the pain was. Now he wasn't stupid. Now he wasn't helpless.

~ Present Time ~ 

Filmy rays of sparse sunlight slipped from the grasps of a blackening horizon, casting streaks of scarlet and violet across Pietro's thin frame. He shuffled along languidly, kicking up chunks of grayed snow with his feet as he trudged along the rumbling highway. It was lively with fleeting cars in the usual fervor of rush hour, and he was occasionally pelted by damp slush as they sped by him. 

He grimaced as he felt wetness on the side of his face and in his hair, and reached up distastefully to wipe it away. He was really regretting his rash decision to walk home now. He had no idea just why he had been thinking so impetuously nearly twenty minutes ago, because that was not a usual characteristic of him. He was not a man of impulse, nor had he ever been. _Well…_

He shrugged off his own thoughts and concentrated on his reluctant footsteps. At the rate he was going, it was going to be a long five miles home. But then again, had it ever been short?

Blake had discovered him, unconscious on the floor of his kitchen, thirty minutes after the attempted suicide. He'd been taken to the hospital, had his stomach pumped, and released two days later. No questions asked. Let free to do whatever he wanted. Again. He'd hated the system then, because he'd wanted, he'd _needed_ help so badly. He'd needed confinement from himself, his own tormented nature. He'd needed chain-link restraints on his wrists and ankles. He'd needed _her_.

And she'd come. They'd spoken once for thirty minutes, and he'd felt that she knew him better than anyone ever had in his entire life. They'd been strangers and family at the same time; he hadn't known anything about her, yet she'd known everything about him. Why was that? Why was her being shrouded by blackness and obscurity, while his soul was bared in bold red letters across his chest for all to see? But then, maybe it had just been her.

In any case, though, she'd come. She'd provided the sanctuary of confinement, of restraint, of herself. She'd been his devoted mother hen for exactly one week, and then she'd pushed him from her nest to fall. Or to fly. How could she have actually expected him to fly? He, with the wings scarred by fire; how could he have _flown_? Flown, and higher than any other?

Of course, he'd hated her for several years, just like he'd hated everyone that he'd loved for betraying him when he'd needed them most. For losing out. For dying. Why had everyone that he'd ever cared for defected, abandoned him, left him to rot? And yet, how had they rotted…and he flown?

He shivered as a taupe Sedan sped past him, splattering him with chunks of wet gray slush. A tiny sliver of orange light trembled on the horizon, its feeble rays falling back and dying as blackness overtook them. It looked as if it would be well past nightfall before he got home.

~Fourteen Years Before~

"So why'd you do it?" She asked quietly.

He shook his head in reply and buried his head in his arms, trying to block out the sharp clinking of sleet on the roof. It was brutal outside: the wind screamed hysterically and spit frozen rain upon the neighborhood through icicle-laced lips. Any fool that dared to venture outdoors in this weather would immediately become mutilated. 

He shivered at the thought and his teeth started to chatter incessantly, even though the fire-lit room was warm bordering on stifling in temperature. Icy beads of perspiration germinated on his ashen skin and dripped onto the thick blanket that engulfed his too-thin body in its fleecy depths. He wished that he could just sink in and never emerge from the warmth, the safety of a manmade rectangle of fuzzy cloth. 

"I – I hate myself." 

His broken words hung, stale, in the sweltering heat. For several minutes neither spoke, and for a brief second he vapidly wondered if she had even heard him. 

"I hate myself." He repeated helplessly, his splintery fingers toying with the hem of the bulky quilt. "I hate myself because – because – because I'm so – I'm so damn stupid. I'm so stupid…" He let out a quivering breath and hugged himself tightly, trying to protect himself from his own words as he continued. "I'm so stupid…I messed everything up. Lance – he was right. I – I am a selfish bastard. I – I – " He struggled to continue, but his lips were trembling too much for him to speak. "I mean – I mean…even – even when he told me everything that happened t-to him…even then – God, even then…I _couldn't_…I was so damn weak…" He swallowed, trying to bridle the torrent of emotions that were threatening to overtake him. His nose stung fiercely and he rubbed it with his sleeve, fumbling blindly for the right words. "I mean – I – I couldn't even admit that I was wr-wrong – I couldn't even admit that I was wrong the _whole_ fucking time." The fire crackled and popped, and he didn't notice the weathered black hand resting gently on his shoulder as they twitched from the terrible strain of an eighteen year old boy going on thirty. 

"Lance was right," he continued, his voice crumbling. "I – I was so selfish. I didn't care – I didn't care where – where – it counted. I was so – fu-fucking stupid…" He paused, squeezing his eyes shut. "I said I did and th-then – and then…I blamed him." He opened his eyes slowly, gazing dewily at his bare toe poking out from beneath the blanket. "I _blamed_ him…I blamed him wh-when it wasn't even his fault – I – I made him hate me…" His eyes stung at the thought, and something wet and sticky nibbled its way down his cheek. He brushed it away and buried his face into the comforting heat of the fleece blanket. "And I walked away," he finished, his voice muffled and dangling upon a whisper. "I walked away – and I didn't even apologize…"

A heavy silence hung between them; the only sounds the popping of the fire and the rhythmical patter of sleet on the roof. Pietro's shoulders jerked erratically, struggling to contain a deluge of emotion, and he rocked back and forth silently for several minutes, his teeth chattering and perspiration trickling off of his chin. Outside, the wind howled and the house elicited a loud groan, threatening to splinter to bits any second. The chimney wailed in reply and the fire flickered succinctly, its copper-painted flames hungrily licking at the sooty brick walls. 

A trembling sob bubbled upon Pietro's lips, flooding the air about him. Dry, hacking sobs: as if he was gasping for oxygen along with a defense from the terrible burden that rested upon his frail shoulders. "I never saw him again," he whispered, his voice taking on a high-pitched, child-like tone. "I never saw him again…I – I couldn't j-just step down from – from my fucking pedestal…for once – for once in m-my…my stupid life…and t-tell him I was sorry…or – or that I loved him – or _anything_." He trembled and sniffled loudly, ignoring the salty tears that streamed down his pale cheeks and dribbled off of his chin. "I – I mean – I ruined it…for us…_I walked away_…" He swallowed, as if trying to suppress the effervescing screams. "And th-the worst part is – is that I can't e-even go back…now…I can't even apologize now…I can't just- just step down…" He shivered again and tried to pull the blanket tighter around him, but his fingers were quivering too much to function right. He struggled with it for a moment before Ellen got up and did it for him, her knarled but comfortingly old hands patting it into place. She sat back down heavily, never removing her gaze from the helplessly fragile boy that sat on the floor, rocking back and forth for lack of knowing what else to do. 

"And with Todd…God, it was all my fault…" His chin trembled, and he lifted his hand to his mouth and started to nibble on his fingertips, completely unaware of what he was doing. "I n-never even we-went to – to visit him…if I had – had just gone once…just put my family before myself…I was too scared. I – I didn't want to – to see what was g-going on with him…so I never – I never went. God…if I had – had just gone and seen – seen him once…just let hi-him know that I – I loved him and – and I was looking out for – for him…then maybe…he wouldn't h-have run away." He lifted his face heavenward, his eyes glistening with tears as he searched the apathetic ceiling for some sort of comfort. "He would have known that – that someone in the fucking world cared about – about him…that someone was wai-waiting for him…to get better." A faint metallic flavor flooded his tongue and he looked down, baffled, to see his fingers bleeding from his own teeth marks. "Oh – I'm – I'm sorry," he babbled as the blood dripped onto the blanket. "I'm – I'm really sorry. I di – "

"Shh…" Ellen whispered, getting to her feet and plodding to the kitchen, returning with a roll of gauze and medical tape. "It's all right." She gently took his white hands in her own black ones and wrapped his bleeding fingers in the coarse gauze, then secured it with the tape. 

"Sorry," Pietro repeated, his eyes still wide with shock. "That's never happened before." 

"Don't worry about it," she replied softly, sitting down again. 

He smiled vaguely at her, blinking rapidly in tacit sadness. "Not that…not the – the blood…I meant that – I meant that I've never said sorry to anyone before." He smiled again: the sad, regretful smile of a young man that had seen too much, felt too much to be considered a boy anymore. "I never – never said it when it mattered…" The smile vanished from his face and was replaced by a blank, hollow-eyed expression. "It doesn't matter – it doesn't matter anymore…none of it…because I already ruined it." He stared at the fire, the fluttering red flames reflected in his eyes. "But God…I miss them…I want them back." His shoulders heaved in a silent sob, but his eyes remained locked on the fire. "Without them…w-without them, I feel so cold…" He shivered unwillingly. "I feel so cold inside, like – like my bones are frozen over a-and everything is…is covered in ice." A new wave of tears washed over him and he started to cry uncontrollably, his dry, racking sobs suspended in the air about him and his hands shaking wildly as he attempted to wipe away the brackish tears that flowed so smoothly from his eyes. "My insides are frozen," he sobbed, his head sinking into his lap by the weight of his own grief. "God…I'm so cold – and at – at the same time my skin's on fire…I'm burning a-and freezing and I – I can't _feel _anything anymore except h-how much it hurts to live…God, it hurts so bad…why – why won't it just stop?" His sobs were muffled by the thick comforter wrapped about his legs, and for several minutes, the only sounds in the room were his rasping sobs. The sleet had long since ceased to fall meticulously upon the roof, and the fire was momentarily silent in its blackened prismic pit. Everything was quiet but for the wrenching sobs coming from the blanket-cloaked boy, his breath coming in harsh gasps and his thin frame quivering and jerking with emotion. And long after he had died away, it was still deathly silent. Completely silent. Completely, utterly _silent._

Then the fire belched forth a tremendous pop, puncturing the thread-like quiet, and both figures jumped. Suddenly the utter noiselessness seemed too loud for both of them: throbbing and pulsing like a human heartbeat inside their ears. Pietro picked up his head and brought his knees up to his chest, hugging them tightly with his arms. The sleet was picking up again, it's rhythmical tap-tapping steadily descending upon the roof. He sighed softly and licked his lips, tasting the bitter tang of salt on his tongue. Leaning forward slightly, he rested his chin on his knees and closed his eyes. "It's not worth it," he whispered into the clamor, his voice barely audible over the rapping sleet. "It's not worth it anymore."

****

Authors Notes – Yayyyy I'm SO GLAD I finished this chapter! It was torture! The real FINALE will be out in a week (I'm praying) I've already gotten part of it written! Go me! And REVIEW.


	5. The World is Just a Mirrorball

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Authors Notes – Chapter 5 is **finally** here! I said one week, it's been two. That's the best you can expect out of me. Anyhoo, this chapter is the grand finale to it all. In the first flashback, you'll notice that there are a lot of similarities between Pietro and…a certain other character? In fact, they even have some of the same lines! Lol, so watch out for that and just so you know, I **did** do that on purpose. Also, look at the dates. The flashbacks in this chapter occur **before** the ones in chapter four. I'm probably confusing you, because I confused myself a lot with the dates, but it'll make sense once you read this. There's also some mad symbolism and freaky obscurity…so uhhh yeah. I think that's it. ENJOY!

Chapter Five ~ The World is Just a Mirrorball

_It's not worth it anymore_. He'd told himself that so many times, and he'd believed himself, too. But if it was really true, than why had everything turned out all right? Why had _he_ turned out all right? Perhaps it was the inner discernment that there were people out there that loved him…that believed that something out there was worth it. But if that was so – but it _couldn't_ be. At the time, in all of his shattered notions, he hadn't believed that there were people like that out there. People that wanted him, that _needed_ him to survive. Sure, there was Ellen, who'd taken him under her wing for an unaccountable period of time and provided retreat on those deathly silent days, but even she had forsaken him in the end. And he hadn't even considered Lance at the time – Lance had hated him. Lance had _wanted_ him to die, to suffer, to burn in hell. Lance hadn't wanted him to survive. But if that was all true…well, then what? Lance hadn't ever loved him? Lance had truly, honestly, wanted him to die? But dying was just an escape…

A faint smile tugged at Pietro's lips as he remembered that timeless Hollywood cliché, 'dying is the easy way out…it's living that's the hard part.' God, that didn't make sense right now. How could it possibly be true, if…if…there were so many flip sides to every possibility on earth? How could it _mean_ something when everything was nothing, yet _some_thing made sense?

Almost a year ago, his car had broken down and he'd been forced to take a shortcut through an alley to wait for a taxi. Embodied by a pool of wet gray slush and freckled with flakes of new white snow, a young girl, about thirteen or fourteen, had been lying, spread-eagled, in the center of the alley, cold and unmoving in a meadow of white. She was obviously one of the many homeless drug addicts that littered the city sectors near Bayville, lost on a trip and apathetic to the fact that she looked ridiculous. He'd sidestepped her, but after a moment's hesitation, he'd stopped and tossed her a second glance. A veil of whitish mist had floated from between her thin blue lips, and he'd felt his heart drop to the floor as he watched her; so cold, so detached from a cold detached world and cold detached people. She'd blinked twice, wet flakes of snow tangling with her eyelashes and melting against her warm skin, and he'd taken a cautious step forward, suddenly so intent on being the good Samaritan. "Are you all right, kiddo?" He'd called hoarsely, kneeling beside her thin frame. "Do you need some help?" Obviously she wasn't all right and obviously she'd needed help, but the lump in his throat had forced those words from his lips. She'd blinked in reply; not shifting her gaze to him or even making any motion to show that she recognized his presence. He'd stared at her for a moment, then reached into his coat pocket for his cell phone. At the shrill beeping that emanated from the small receiver, the girl had shivered and shot straight up, thick clumps of dirty slush stuck to her hair and back. "Hash for fifty dollars!" She'd shrieked hysterically, tugging at her coat. "I won't sell it to you, Dad! No – I don't want your help, Mom! Were you ever there when I needed you?! _Don't patronize me, you bitch_!" Then she'd bolted.

Long after, he'd stood there and stupidly wondered what was wrong with her.

~Fifteen Years Before~

Pietro drummed his fingers against the arms of his chair, boredly taking in his surroundings. It was a small, square office room, with generic beige curtains thrown across the windows and several uninteresting still-life portraits speckling the walls. At the desk before him sat a stern-looking black woman in her late fifties, a pair of steel-rimmed glasses fixed precisely upon her nose and a disdainful frown resting on her lips.

"So you must be the Pietro Maximoff that I've heard so much about," she said sharply, staring at him. "Tell me, why do you have to cause so much trouble around here?"

Pietro shrugged and gazed out the window, not bothering to answer. This was the third psychiatrist he'd met with in the past two weeks. 

"Look at me when I talk to you." 

At this impatient command, Pietro scowled and turned back to the heavyset woman before him. "I was just wondering if it was gonna snow." He said, leaning back in his chair and studying his hands.

"It shouldn't matter, because you won't be leaving for another four months," the woman replied lightly. Pietro glowered at her, but she ignored him and continued. "My name's Ellen Kinyon, but we should probably get to know each other on a first name basis. You'll be around for a while."

"Unfortunately," Pietro remarked rudely, swinging his feet right on to her desk and disregarding her aggravated expression. "Hurry up and get this over with."

Ellen smiled sweetly in reply. "I'm afraid we can't do that until you get your feet off my desk."

Pietro glanced over in feigned surprise. "Did I? Whoops, sorry about that." He grinned apologetically and dragged his feet off the wood, leaving behind a trail of dirt. "So lets get started."

Ellen nodded and wiped the grime away with a tissue. "Thank you. Why don't we start with the basics, Pietro?"

"Great," Pietro agreed.

"I understand that you're here for grand auto theft," Ellen said smoothly, eyeing the unconcerned boy in front of her through steel-rimmed glasses. 

Pietro didn't look up. "That's right."

"If you don't mind my asking, why on earth would you steal a car?" Ellen asked. "Don't you have one?"

Pietro blinked and turned on the African-American woman, a slight frown suspended on his lips. "If you don't mind my asking, what the hell kinda stupid question is that? Don't you have a fuckin' brain?" 

Ellen looked furious, but Pietro pretended not to notice; instead, he turned back to the window and started to whistle loudly.

"You listen here, young man," Ellen said in strained calm after a frenetic silence. "I won't tolerate your bad-mouthing in here while you're with me. Maybe all the other psychiatrists put up with it, but I tell you, I have had it up to _here_ with all you disrespectful teenag – "

"Like I haven't heard that fuckin' line before!" Pietro exclaimed to the window. He turned back to Ellen, a cynical sneer playing on his lips. "Don't tell me, Mrs. oh-I'm-different-than-the-rest-I-want-to-help-severely-disturbed-teenagers-like-you-but-until-you-train-that-potty-mouth-of-yours-to-stay-shut-I'm-not-gonna-help-shit, you just _hate_ blasphemy!" When Ellen opened her mouth to retort, Pietro added cheerfully, "Sorry about that, I meant shoot. What has _got_ten into teenagers these days, huh?" 

Shaking with anger, Ellen glowered across the desk at Pietro, completely lost for words in all of her rage. "You – you learn some respect, young man – " she sputtered, her dark face reddening.

"Or what? You'll _banish_ me from the sanctity that is your office?" Pietro laughed out loud. "That's funny. Please do. I've had it up to _here_ with all of you cracked-up fuckholes that wouldn't recognize reality unless someone fuckin' crammed it up your ass. Oh wait – " He slapped himself on the forehead in feigned comprehension, "you _can't_! You _can't_ tell me to fuck off and kick my ungrateful ass to the street! It's your _job_ to help poor misled delinquents to find the guiding light! You under_stand_ my sarcasm because you just want to help! Gosh, I'm _so_ not perceptive…" He clucked his tongue against the side of his mouth. "No offense or anything, but you should learn to keep your fuckin' cool. The other pussies did a better job than you. Maybe then, your crack delinquents will appreciate you more." He shrugged innocently and gestured toward the window. "It looks like snow, don't it?"

Ellen glared at him for a minute and pursed her lips, clearly searching for an appropriate reply. "Let's move on," she said finally through clenched teeth.

"Okay." 

"I understand that you're living with two other teenage boys. One is a year older than you, and the other is in rehab, I believe?"

"You got it."

"How's life with them?" Ellen asked, by now regaining some of her professional composure.

Pietro looked annoyed. "Shit and giggles, fuckass."

Ellen fidgeted in her chair angrily, obviously yearning to tell him off again. "Thank you. I meant, any financial problems I should know about? Emotional? Physical?"

"Well, besides that time that Lance tied me down and raped me, nothing," Pietro said thoughtfully. Ellen smiled sarcastically in reply and scribbled something on her notepad before looking up again. "What about Frederick Dukes? Are you okay with what happened to him?"

"With what?" Pietro asked in blank pretentiousness. "What do you mean, with what happened to him?"

Ellen frowned and looked nervous, obviously not realizing that Pietro knew perfectly well what she was talking about. "You know…how he passed…?"

"Oh! You mean how he _died_?" Pietro practically yelled, his eyes widening. "I don't _know_, Ellen. That's a touchy subject. I'd rather not…I'd rather not _go_ there, if you know what I mean."

The older woman's eyes narrowed angrily, and she slammed his folder onto her desk, sending a scattering of papers across the floor. "How do you _feel_ about it, Pietro?" She demanded.

Pietro shrugged. "I dunno. Am I supposed to feel? What if I'm still in shock?"

Ellen sighed. "What about Lance Alvers and Todd Tolensky? How do you think they felt?"

Pietro shrugged again. "Lance was a hitman in his previous life, and Todd's part frog. How do _you_ think they felt?" He laughed roughly. "I'll give you a hint. _They didn't give a shit_."

"Don't lie to me, young man," Ellen said cuttingly, "everyone at this clinic knows the reason that Todd Tolensky went to rehabilitation was because he couldn't deal with Mr. Dukes' death. He got addicted to heroin and was going through withdrawal when you and Mr. Alvers decided to lock him up. He'll remain there for another year, and doctors are tight-lipped about his progress. _Now_ how do you think he felt?" She looked up to smirk triumphantly at Pietro, but was shocked to see his face as white as a mask and his pale eyes smoldering with barely suppressed choleric. 

"Fuck – you," he spat, gripping the sides of his chair so tightly that his knuckles turned white. "Don't fuckin' sit there and gossip my fuckin' life away. You don't know fuckin' shit – you don't know what the hell I've been through and you don't know a motherfuckin' shit about my family. If you say one more word about them, I'm gonna fuckin' go over there and kill you." 

There was a temporary silence; Pietro seething in soundless rage and Ellen frozen in shock.

"Get on with it," Pietro said finally, his voice still quivering. "And not one more word."

Ellen nodded wordlessly and cleared her throat, pretending to study her pad of notes for a moment. "Um…are you having any problems here? With the other – boys?"

Pietro shook his head.

Ellen nodded and stared at her notes again. "Um – " she opened her mouth to ask another pointless question, but something entirely different came out from between her lips. "I'm sorry," she blurted out, and immediately cringed, half-expecting Pietro to whip a pistol out of his pocket and start shooting wildly. He didn't, though, and she peered up fearfully.

Pietro stared at her, his fists clenched and his breath coming in gasps. "Don't…fuckin' go there."

"I mean, I'm sorry for my insensitivity," Ellen rambled on nervously, ignoring his warning. "I didn't realize that your family was…that important to you, and I know I should have, being your psychiatrist. But…but I'm glad to see it, because most – most kids that come in here don't care about anything…or anyone, and that's really sad to me – I'm glad to see someone different. Um…" She trailed off anxiously, waiting for his response. When nothing came, though, she started up again, her apprehensive voice thudding heavily upon the air. "Um…I'm truly sorry about what happened to Mr. Dukes, I didn't mean to be so rude – but I'm glad that you still care – like I said, there's so many indifferent kids here, it's a little terrifying…what I mean is, there's hope for you yet…" She smiled uneasily at Pietro, searching his eyes for some sort of gratitude, or at least a response. 

He shook his head and stared at his hands, not meeting her inquiring gaze. "There's hope for you, too," he whispered hoarsely. 

~Present Time~

Bright circles of twin yellow light swung across Pietro's line of vision, temporarily blinding him as a boxy car sped past him, pelting him with moist slush. He ignored it and walked on, kicking a rock with the toe of his shoe. He was nearing the local road; he could make out the faintly glowing streetlights of his apartment complex about a half mile away. He'd been walking for about three hours, and his cheeks and fingers had long since numbed with cold. Part of him yearned for the comforting warmth of the indoors, while another wanted to walk forever, through miles upon miles of frigid white snow and ice, until his shoes would wear away and his bare feet would bleed crimson fingers into the immaculate powder beneath them. He wanted to walk and walk and walk, regardless of every vestige that composed his life into what it had now become: a bare, robotic realm of bittersweet memories sugar-coated in hills of sticky paperwork. He wanted the memories _back_, because as long as he had pushed them away and even forgotten about them, he couldn't help but realize, now, how exquisite they truly were. They provided something for him that banks stuffed with money nor hours brimming with savory workloads ever would – they provided an inner knowledge that somewhere, sometime in his life (or had it been someone else's?) he'd felt _something_ for the people around him. Did he miss the feeling? Did he truly, deep-down, want that back? Emotions were irresolute, inconstant, yet unchangeable once struck hard enough. Did he really want the unpredictability, along with the joy and pleasure and happiness, back in his life? Even now, he wasn't sure.

A faint kiss of airiness caressed his cheek, and he glanced up, surprised, to see the navy sky suddenly dotted with lightly descending white snowflakes. They were the kind that felt like cotton candy in your mouth, lacking the sugariness of the former but sweetly dipping onto your tongue and melting like the saccharine virginity that they were. He slowly turned his face heavenwards and opened his mouth, letting the featherweight fine grains dangle tantalizingly between his lips, then slowly drift down onto his warm tongue. They felt cool and refreshing against his face, and he reveled in the tiny relics of a memory that were carved in his mind as each delicate snowflake airbrushed his skin. It had been a time so long ago, even longer than Ellen, or rehab, or drugs, or the mindbending stress that had turned each day into a living hell. It had been another lifetime, when things were lighter and colors were brighter. 

It had been beautiful.

And it had been snowing.

~Sixteen Years Ago~

Pietro sighed loudly and pressed his nose up against the window, moodily taking in the thick swirling snow that clouded the air outside. The dizzying white maelstrom made visibility completely nonexistent, and it was thanks to the stupid blizzard that he couldn't go anywhere. _Stupid snow…_

He glowered at his faint reflection in the window and made a face. He was completely wired from the two triple mocha cappucinos he'd swilled down nearly an hour ago, and all of the excess energy and lack of anything to do was making him incredibly jumpy. Lance was busy arguing with some tax jerk on the phone, Todd was fixated in a zombie-like trance in front of the television, and Fred was busy fixing himself a double-decker ham sandwich.

Which all in turn left he, Pietro Maximoff, extremely bored. He sighed again and turned to stare at Todd on the couch. The younger boy had been watching some lame-ass talk shows for the past two hours and refused to speak to anybody, let alone let them change the channel. Pietro sighed again, louder this time, and glared pointedly at him. Todd ignored him for a few minutes until a commercial came on; then frostily addressed the speed demon. "Stop groaning, yo! You're giving me a headache." And with those simple words of wisdom, he glued his eyes back on the television. Pietro gritted his teeth and turned back to the window, drumming his thin fingers against the ledge rapidly. He'd already made (and downed) two triple mocha cappucinos, prank-called the X-freaks twice, run around the house screaming at the top of his lungs forty-nine times, played with Todd's hair, reorganized the fridge twice, reorganized the living room twice, reorganized his room twice, and sang 'ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall' over twenty times. The latter had oddly given him motion sickness after the twenty-third round, so he was forced to desist, much to Todd's relief.

He glared at the tassels of snow being tossed around by the wind. If it weren't for them, he would have been able to go somewhere…Lance's angry voice rose above the sound of the television, and he winced inwardly, wondering just what the hell the tax-loser had done wrong now. Lance could be exceedingly nasty when he got worked up, and nowadays, he was always worked up. Pietro wasn't completely positive, because Lance refused to tell him anything, but he was pretty sure that the older boy was damn in over his head with things most eighteen-year olds should never be. 

__

Whatever…Pietro sighed and turned back to the window. _Damn snow…_He was furiously glaring at the white powder when a lightbulb went off in his ever-vigorous head. _Snow…Todd…snow…Todd…snow and Todd…Todd and snow…_He grinned to himself and reached for the window latch. As soon as he opened the window, a tremendous gust of icy wind nearly knocked him to the floor. Todd stared incredulously at him and let loose a string of obscenities when he saw what Pietro was doing. "Shut the window, yo! I'm gonna freeze to death!"

"And wouldn't that be a shame," Pietro replied sarcastically, feeling a brief flicker of excitement dart through his system as he casually made a snowball from the snow on the ledge_. _He smiled again and turned on Todd, who was swearing loudly at him but was too lazy to actually get up and stop him. "You throw that at me, yo, and I swear – " _Thwap_. Pietro couldn't help but utter the tiniest of giggles as the snowball met Todd square in the face. The younger boy started to sputter incoherently as he clawed the snow out of his eyes, and Pietro laughed wickedly in reply and started pelting him with snowballs. _Thwap thwap thwap thwap thwap!_

Todd soon gave up his efforts to wipe his face off and instead, elicited a girlish shriek and leaped in Pietro's general direction. The older boy easily dodged him and, laughing maniacally, he sped into the kitchen, where Lance was cussing his heart out on the phone and Fred was wolfing down his towering sandwich. Pietro quickly opened the back door and armed himself with ten snowballs just as Todd wheeled into the kitchen, skidding slightly on the linoleum. "Get ready to – "

" – die?" Pietro offered politely, nailing Todd with all ten snowballs, one after the other.

"What're you doing?" Fred asked, looking politely confused through a mouthful of ham and lettuce.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Lance yelled at the same time as the snowballs went flying over his head. "Shut the – I'm not talking to you – no, this isn't a bad time! No, you won't call me back – hang up and I'll go over there and kick your ass – "

Todd was temporarily distracted by Lance's purpling face, and Pietro took advantage of the moment to dart forward…and fall flat on his ass, owing to the large amount of melted snow that splattered the floor. "Damn!" He squealed, immediately rubbing his tender backside. "Damn, my beautiful ass! I think it's bruising!" 

"Ha!" Todd crowed evilly, planting his hands on his hips. "Serves you right, yo."

"Serves no one right," Pietro snapped, gingerly getting to his feet. "Ofcoursedamagingyourswoulddefinitelyservetheworldgreatly." He grinned craftily and, before Todd could decipher his rapid speech, he had grabbed the younger boy by the collar and tossed him out the open back door and into two feet of very cold snow. _Just like in the movies_…Pietro gaped at his perfectly executed pitch, thoroughly amazed by his good aim. _Whoops_. He smiled again as Todd started to sputter furiously, his words muffled by the snow. He hadn't actually meant to _throw_ Todd outside…he'd sort of figured that the guy would stop himself, or at least maintain his balance instead of crashing face-first into the snow. 

"Pietro, you idiot!" Lance bellowed, dropping the phone. 

"Man, you's gonna pay for that, yo!" Todd yelled, pulling himself to his feet. His reddened face was spotted with clumps of snow and so was his hair, along with a big chunk of peculiarly yellow snow. "Come out and fight me like a man!" He shouted furiously, completely oblivious to what was on his head.

At this, Pietro burst into a fit of hysterical giggles, Fred chuckled, and even Lance cracked a grin. Angry shouting emanated from the receiver on the floor, but they all ignored it. 

"Todd, sweetheart," Pietro said kindly, "you're going wee-wee the wrong way again." Lance burst out laughing, and Todd looked dementedly confused. 

"What the hell are you talking about?" He demanded suspiciously, eyeing the three smiling older boys. 

"Nothing, nothing at all," Pietro said mildly, while at the same time Fred blurted out, "there's dog piss on your head!" 

Todd's face paled slightly, and his hand went up to investigate. "Ew…yo!" He screeched upon locating the yellowed snow and hurriedly brushing it off of his head. "That's not funny!"

"For your confused lower privities, it most certainly is not," Pietro replied gravely, shaking his head.

"You – you…" Todd shook his fist angrily and actually stomped his foot, causing Lance and Pietro to laugh even harder.

"Is anyone else wondering why the hell a dog's peeing in our backyard?" Lance choked out, his face painted in all different shades of purple and red.

"Lighten up, Todd," Fred said soothingly, shooting the other boys a reproachful look, even as his own lips twitched with harnessed laughter. "It's just a little bit of snow."

"Just a – just a little bit of snow?" Todd repeated furiously. "Just a _little bit of snow_? I'll show you a little bit of snow, yo!" For from being grateful for the large boy's defense, he bent over and hurled the chunk of yellow snow at him, but luckily, (or unluckily) his aim was more than a little off, and it plopped harmlessly on the linoleum. 

Pietro found this hilarious and Freddy finally broke down and let out a snicker, but there was one person in the kitchen that was not at all happy. 

"Todd, you _retard_!" Lance roared, his expression going from chortling to rabidly psychotic in about a quarter of a millisecond. "_Not in the house_!"

"Yeah Todd, not in the house!" Pietro echoed, waggling his finger annoyingly. He cackled delightedly, and this seemed to strike a nerve with Lance. The next thing he knew, he was lying face-down in a heap of shockingly cold snow. "Oh my God," he whined, tugging his face out of the snow. "Lance! Why'd you do tha – " He was abruptly cut off by someone (most probably Todd) sitting on his head. He gagged on a mouthful of snow and tried to speak, but all he got was more snow. In the distance, he could hear Todd, Fred, and Lance's muffled laughter.

"You're gonna die," he huffed, but it probably sounded more like, 'moo-gun-mie' to anyone that may have heard him. He tried to continue, but a chunk of snow got caught in his throat, and he started having difficulty breathing. Finally, after what seemed like eternity, Todd got off of him and he wrenched his face out of the snow and sucked in several mouthfuls of much-beloved oxygen. It was oddly silent, and he frowned mid-gulp and looked around suspiciously. Just as he had predicted, Lance and Todd were poised behind him, snowballs in hand and ready to fly. Fred, oddly, was off in the distance, making a snowman. Pietro grinned at the latter observation and ducked right before the snowballs could hit, and, before Todd and Lance had time to wonder where he had gone, they were both gagging on snow. 

"Muhahahaha!" Pietro yelled evilly, dashing up behind them and starting to circle them in mad figure-eights. 

"No fair!" Lance sputtered furiously, vainly attempting to defend himself from Pietro's wrath. The ground started to tremble beneath them, and in the background, Fred let out a cry of frustration. "Lance! You wrecked it!" The older boy turned and stared at the forlorn boy to see him standing next to a pile of snow nearly as tall as him. "You're gonna get it!" He started running toward Lance, who immediately panicked and let loose another huge tremor. Pietro wobbled unsteadily in his path of destruction, and fell to the ground. He was immediately bombarded by a torrent of snowballs and sinister laughter. "You're gonna die for that!" He announced threateningly, only to be answered by more laughter and a bunch of snowballs hitting the back of his neck. He could hear Freddy's thundering footsteps approaching, and, sure enough, Lance's alarmed cries came soon after. Some more snowballs hit the back of his neck, the cold bits of ice sliding under the collar of his shirt and down his back. He looked down, mildly surprised, to realize for the first time that he was wearing a cotton T-shirt, a pair of sweatpants with holes in the knees, and no socks in the middle of winter. Better yet, in the middle of winter _and_ in the midst of an evil snowstorm when the temperature was easily five below.

"Hey guys," he started, turning to the other three, "do you – " He didn't get to finish, because he was immediately besieged by a throng of green snowballs, specially slimed by Todd's good taste, and he was too busy dodging about and chucking snowballs for the rest of the evening to remember the utter absurdity of the whole situation. Or the utter brilliance. He had yet to decide.

~Present Time~

Jagged shadows of eerie blackness sliced through the street, giving it a strange broken glass appearance with the slivers of lamplight slashed by angular claws of ebony. Pietro's plodding footsteps echoed along the silent street, only occasionally interrupted by a passing car, while a fuzzy splattering of stars glowed blearily in the distance, having overtaken the ephemeral fall of snow. His apartment complex stood about a block away, and for reasons he found difficult to explain to himself, he'd taken every side street and alleyway that he could. Perhaps he'd wanted this epiphany to last a little longer than the snowfall had – and create a more lasting impression. For the snow would eventually melt away with the passing sun, leaving behind nothing on the barren concrete sidewalks. But this epiphany – was that the right word? – maybe it would create a permanent set of footprints somewhere in his hardened insides and – and what? Just stay there? Change him into the better man that he wasn't sure that he wanted to be? Give him the emotion that he so desired – and so despised? 

Pietro shrugged to himself and turned sharply into an alley between two apartment buildings, his shoes clicking assuredly against the lightly powdered concrete. A streetlight sent weak rays of sickly yellow light across the opening to the other side, somehow uncannily looking like a gateway to heaven in the midst of an acidulous hell. Pietro glanced at his feet, and when he looked up again, the light flickered. He blinked, and stopped. Did streetlights flicker…? He squinted into the empty egress, vainly attempting to locate the cause of the disturbance. Seeing nothing, he shrugged and moved on until he stood in the faint luminescence of the light. To his left, there was a sudden flash of movement, and he whipped around in time to see a filthy young man with longish hair and an apparent slouch, his hands outstretched towards Pietro's coat. "Hey!" Pietro yelled, violently swinging around and giving the man a hard shove, easily sending him sprawling onto the concrete_. A little too easily…_most muggers weren't that delicate, were they? 

Grunting loudly as he hit the sidewalk, the man rolled over and sprinted around the corner and out of sight. Pietro stood there for a moment, his heart pounding loudly into the sudden silence. Instinctively, he reached into his coat pockets and was relieved, but not overly so, to find that his wallet and cell phone were still there. He didn't think the man had taken anything, but it never hurt to be careful. He scratched his head, overwhelmed by the sudden turn of events that had taken place in less than ten seconds. He'd never heard of muggers in this part of the city…sure, there was the occasional robbery and pickpocket, but this definitely wasn't some inner-city high-crime concentration place. Pietro shrugged again and wiped at his coat where the man had touched him, inwardly disgusted by the dirt-streaks that had been left behind. That guy had most definitely been a homeless, and not a physically strong one at that, either. Why, the last time he could remember knocking someone down that easily had been…well, it hadn't been anytime recently. In fact, it had been…

Pietro frowned, groping into the darkened corners of his brain. Why did that man remind him of a certain someone? Someone…someone who had been so _easy_ to push around – both physically and emotionally? Who had that been…?

"Todd!" Pietro yelled, taking off in a sudden sprint around the corner and into the direction that the man had gone. "Todd!" He yelled again, reaching a fork in the alleys and wheeling into the one on the left. That had to have been Todd…it had been so many years, but it was him…he knew it. The thin frame, the wildly frantic eyes, the slouched figure, the quick discouragement…it was Todd. Todd – Todd of nearly twenty years ago! Todd had lived! Todd was _alive_!

"Todd!" Pietro shouted again, agitated, reaching an empty and unfamiliar street. "Todd! It's me! Pietro Maximoff! Remember –?" He skidded to a stop in the middle of the street, realizing full well the hopelessness of the situation. For God's sake, Todd had run away almost five minutes ago, and he wouldn't be hanging around the close streets. And if he was, well – he could be a drug-crazed addict gone insane – he probably wouldn't remember a boy of nearly two decades ago. How could he? It had been so long…

Pietro sighed loudly into the silence, the volume of his heartbeat slowly diminishing in his ears. Of course it hadn't been Todd. He was just fooling himself. The boy had run away from rehab at the age of fifteen – sixteen? Pietro couldn't even remember anymore. In any case, he had been a _boy_ then – he'd left a place that seemed hateful to his inexperienced eyes and returned home to love – or to a poor imitation. For decayed alleys crusted over in mildew and death could never be considered home…a trip spurred by deceitful sensuality in the form of white grains couldn't _truly_ be considered love, could it? But then, if it was not so, what was it? Lust? Greed? Corruption? Beguiling crystals that kissed the insides of one who had been burned, only wanting to provide some consolation?

Pietro shook his head resignedly, and walked on. He didn't know the answers. He didn't _want_ the answers. He didn't want to know if Todd had rotted away in a dumpster two days after he'd run away; he didn't want to know if Todd was still out there, breathing crystals and living another realm. He didn't want to know if Lance had truly hated him and wanted to kill him; he didn't want to know if Fred had died to faded lights and screaming voices…_he didn't want to know_. Anything. All he wanted was a paycheck and a nice apartment and a time-consuming occupation – he didn't want a family, or happiness, or a little bit of feeling, or something besides a black and white existence. He didn't want. He just _didn't_. 

He reached a familiar street and found himself standing before his own apartment complex. The parking lot was silent and deserted, void of movement or life. A deep sigh escaped his lips, half in relief, half in remorse. Well, this was what he wanted. This was what he needed. To step into a warm apartment room and flick on the television, then melt into someone else's problems – someone else's emotion. He started moving quickly toward his own building and hurried up the steps and through the heavy aluminum door. He was immediately encompassed by a sauna of warm air blowing on his face from the radiator and immense relief in his heart that he had made it this far. He had made it. He had defeated _them_. Of course, what "them" was, he wasn't quite sure…he moved towards his door, the one with the numbers two-five-three etched into the brass plate. His hand slowly reached out to rest upon a greasy doorknob, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around the curve. He had made it. He had made it. He was where he wanted to be.

A sheen of perspiration cloaked his pale skin, and he was faintly surprised to hear blood throbbing in his ears. Could he really do this? If he walked into that room, then everything – the memories, the discomfort, the trickle of something distinctly hot and scorching in his system – it would all fall away. But that was what he wanted, wasn't it? To be unfettered, to be freed. 

Or to be enslaved. 

"Fuck!" Pietro yelled, slamming a fist into the door. Swinging angrily on his heel, he tore out of the building. It was silent for days after that.

****

End of Story

****

Authors Notes – Yayyy!!! It's all done! It's over! **This fic is history! ^_^ **I hope you enjoyed! I realize the ending was weirdly obscure, and somewhat morbid-seeming, but in all honesty, it really wasn't. It's open for interpretation, although I do have my own meaning in mind. Did Pietro leave to die because he couldn't handle it? Or did he leave to get it all back…? Personally, I'm leaning toward the latter, but you can think what you want. Anyway, if you want an explanation or don't understand something (I probably messed something up along the way) then feel free to tell me about it in reviews or email me at Jmchick352@aol.com and I'll de-confuse you. Or I'll confuse you even more. I confuse myself sometimes. Er…oh, and WATCH OUT for my soon-to-come fic Footprints in the Sky! It's Evo, of course, and BH ANGSTY yumminess! I love the Brotherhood! It'll be a chapter fic, and I've gotten part of it written already so it should be out in a week (knowing me, probably two) and it's less freaky scary druggie angst and more…sad teenager drama angst. Like, it's about how the BH came together starting with the second episode of X-Men: Evo…okay, never mind, you'll see soon enough. SO WATCH OUT THAT…please. AND REVIEW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


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